


The Broken Road That Led Me Straight To

by beautifulboysincars (AlexMeg)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Sam Winchester, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Caring Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilty Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sam Winchester, Parental Bobby Singer, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sad Sam Winchester, Shy Sam Winchester, Sweet Dean Winchester, Unrelated Winchesters (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 05:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 48,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17801780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexMeg/pseuds/beautifulboysincars
Summary: AU. Pre-series. Dean Winchester lost his younget brother, Adam, at an early age, and ever since then, there has been an empty hole inside Dean that kept growing each day, and the guilt and anguish sometimes overwhelms him.He then meets Sam Wesson, with a dark past and present, a younger brother himself, but lives with an older brother who is abusive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an oldie, posted originally on fanfic in 2012 and completed in 2016.
> 
> https:// www. fanfiction. net /s/8605037/1/The-Broken-Road-That-Led-Me-Straight-To-You
> 
> In this story, Dean is five years older than Adam, and four years older than Sam. Sam is 16-17 and Dean is 20-21. 
> 
> Thanks to AlElizabeth for her help and for betaing the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for description of suicide

 

 

 

**-March 21st 2000**

 

Dean Winchester sat on a stool in front of a bar table, nursing a drink. Today was the anniversary of the most terrible and agonizing day of his life, March 21st. He twirled the bottle around in his hands, staring at it with unfocused and drunken eyes, engrossed in his memories of that tragic day.

"What the hell you idjits think ya doing drinking on a damn job?!" Bobby yelled from behind them, pissed off at the two men sitting in front of the bar.

"S' Maaarc' t'enty firs'." Dean slurred drunkenly, raising his glass towards him. "He'e! 'aaaff' a drin'!"

Bobby's anger dissipated at that, suddenly realizing what date it was. He swallowed down the tears welling in his eyes and forced out a smile, aiming for it to be comforting but only turning out sorrowful and on the verge of breaking as he placed a hand on both of their shoulders.

_March 21st 1994_. The day Dean's brother died. The day he had found his baby brother, Adam, hanging from the motel fan with the noose of the rope encircling his neck, empty and dead eyes staring downward at the floor. His baby brother had been dead for six years now, and all those six years that passed had left a cold, dark pit of loneliness and emptiness, despair and sorrow, guilt and shame, in the bottom of his stomach, and it kept growing each and every day, getting bigger and bigger. Sometimes it was just so damn overwhelming that Dean had the strong urge to grab one of the guns in his duffel bag and put a bullet straight through his brain and join his brother. But then Dean would imagine he heard his Dad's voice, and realize that he couldn't do that to him. His Dad has been through as much as he had, because his Dad had also lost his wife, like Dean had lost his mom, his Dad had also lost his youngest son, like Dean had lost his little brother. How he had managed to live those years like that without his stupid, annoying, geeky and a pain-in-the-ass little brother? He had no idea.

He had failed Adam. He had failed to understand his brother's feelings, what he was going through, at what all this life of hunting was doing to him. Maybe if Dean had held his brother and told him that it'd be okay instead of calling him a whiny little brat and to suck it up, maybe his brother would've never done such a thing. Maybe if Dean had been more patient with his brother's angry rants about how their Dad had always treated them like soldiers instead of sons, how their father always been their drill sergeant for most of their lives than he had been their Dad. Maybe if Dean had controlled his anger and not said those terrible words to Adam, maybe he could have saved his brother's life. Dean felt tears well up in his eyes and roll down his cheeks but he barely noticed. But when Dean did realize he was crying, he roughly wiped at his face, rubbing his nose with his sleeve and sniffing.

Beside him was John Winchester, his Dad, chugging at his own bottle as he observed the anniversary of his baby boy's death. For a few weeks after his son's death, he had grieved, had probably gone crazy for a while, drinking himself into oblivion each night, snapping angrily at everyone including his oldest. He had nothing to blame this on, because his son wasn't killed by anything, no supernatural creature or a psycho-human being. No.

His baby boy had committed suicide, had killed himself with his very own hands — willingly.

And he had no one to blame but himself. Because he had been a terrible father, hadn't understood his son, hadn't paid attention to what was happening to him. His son was suffering internally; the depression that was eating away at his baby boy. But instead of taking a few minutes to sit down and listen to his youngest son's problems, understand his pain and suffering and then help him, maybe hold him and tell him that he loved him, he had taught him to just suck it up and carry on, because that's what Winchesters do.

But then he realized what this tragic event must have been doing to Dean. If this is how he's feeling, then his oldest must be having an even more difficult time of it, because losing the kid you had taken care of for eleven years, that you had given up everything for, had protected like a clam protects the pearl inside, had to be beyond the limits of bearing. And it was one of the few times John had showed affection towards his eldest son, had held Dean and told him that he loved him and that they'd get through this, that it was gonna be okay. Too late. John told Dean the things he should've told Adam.

Because he couldn't bear to make the same mistake ever again, and lose his only remaining child as well.

"Tooo ya', Aaad'm." John raised his glass towards the sky.

"Alright, that's enough you two." Bobby said softly, but his voice was still gruff. He glared angrily at the bartender who came back, probably to serve them, and he quickly walked away quietly, a flicker of fear on his face as he caught sight of the furious stare.

Bobby reached out for both of the Winchesters, grabbing their biceps and pulling them off the stools easily. Both men barely protested as the old hunter led them out of the bar and walked them towards the motel room a few blocks away. The two stumbled drunkenly onto the pavement, eyes rolling around slightly as the whole world spun around them, making it hard for them to see and walk in a straight line.

They reached their motel room in less than three minutes. And before the door even banged against the wall, Dean stumbled over to his bag, holding on to the edge of the table for support as he fumbled with the zippers. It took a few tries but he finally ripped it open, taking out a picture and staring quietly at it, and for a second he looked sober to Bobby as unshed tears filled his eyes. It was a photo of him and Adam on the beach, with their arms around each other's shoulders as they grinned at the camera. It was one of the best days of their lives, just two years before his brother's death. John had decided to take his boys to the beach, wanting them to just relax and experience a bit of normalcy, and deciding to take a break and just chill himself.

He brought the picture to his chest, hugging it closely. " _Adam_..." He whispered brokenly, wondering why all of this had to happen.

_Damn it! Why_?

**SNSNSNSNSN**

The vacant eyes, the cold expression, it was all that he wore each and every morning he opened his eyes, just staring at the ceiling silently until he'd be snapped out of it by John's voice. For the past six years, he had barely smiled for  _real_ , and when he did, it'd be too small, maybe at a simple little joke or even a little grin at times. Sometimes if they'd get lucky, they'd manage to get a chuckle from him or very,  _very_ rarely, a laugh.

But there's a huge difference between laughing and  _actually_  being happy, just as there's a major difference between breathing and living. Because a whole half of Dean Winchester had died the day his baby brother, Adam Winchester did.

Then the whole 'pretending-to-be-completely-fine' act starts, with a fake cocky attitude and a fake, translucent grin plastered on his lips for the sake of his Dad, to show him that he's fine even when he's not, while he's actually completely shattered inside with each piece breaking again and again with each day that passes without his little brother by his side, when each and every night he goes to bed — he hopes that he won't live to see the next daylight, when it'd take each and every bit of emotional strength in him to get out of his bed and face a whole new day, when he barely made it through the previous one.

With no baby brother to protect and keep safe, with no one to hold and comfort through their terrible nightmares, no cold feet to jolt him from his sleep and the little giggle that followed after the surprised yelp when he and his brother had to share a bed, because the other one's occupied by their exhausted and cranky dad who just came from a hunt.

No annoying, pain-in-the-ass little brother.

So this was how Dean Winchester had lived his six years. Cold and dead inside, lonely and lost inside, filled to the brim it seemed the darkness of despair, with no light.

_No life_.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2012:   
> Thanks to AlElizabeth for betaing this chapter too, and for helping me. If it weren't for her, I would've never been able to write it, she practically wrote the whole chapter for me.

Once the Winchesters had gotten the drink out of their systems, Bobby decided it was time for them to dive back into their work.

The grizzled hunter knew how John and Dean were feeling, knew they missed Adam — hell, Bobby missed the boy as well — but every time March twenty-first that rolled around, the two remaining Winchester men would get themselves plastered out of grief and were completely useless for a number of days; and that wouldn't help anybody. It wouldn't bring Adam back and all John and Dean were doing were pickling their livers.

Barging into the Winchesters' motel room the morning after he'd dragged them out of that bar, Bobby set down three large cups of take-out coffee.

Both John and his son were sprawled out on their beds, dead to the world, still wearing their jeans and boots and shirt-sleeves.

Bobby stepped closer to the sleeping men, making no attempt to be quiet and sighed softly when he saw that Dean was holding onto that photograph of his brother the day their Daddy had taken them to the beach.

"Alright you two..." Bobby grumbled to the sleeping Winchesters. "Enough's enough."

Walking into the motel room's tiny kitchenette, the veteran hunter rummaged around until he found a frying pan and a saucepan.

Standing in between the beds, noting that the alarm clock read 7 o'clock, Bobby couldn't help but smile a little before he bashed the pans together, eliciting a loud, resonant toll.

The reaction was instantaneous. Both John and Dean leaped up — John's hand on his gun and Dean's on his knife — before they realized that the only threat was Bobby.

"Jesus Christ, Bobby!" John snapped once his heart had stopped pounding. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"I'll do a lot worse if you don't put that gun down." Bobby growled and John, looking sheepish, lowered the weapon.

Dean, sitting on the edge of his bed, rested his head in his hand.

"I know you don't wanna hear bad news this early in the morning but a friend of mine up in Auburn Hills, Michigan called last night and said there's been a series of what the authorities are calling ' _feral dog attacks_." Bobby set the frying and saucepan on the table in the kitchenette and handed the Winchesters their coffee.

"Huh, so he is civilized at least." Dean muttered to his father.

"I heard that!" Bobby growled back to the young man.

"What makes these dog attacks our thing? Is it a werewolf?" John asked and stood, stretching.

"Doesn't seem like one." Bobby scratched his beard thoughtfully. "The hearts of the victims were all intact — they were just about the only things not torn to shreds."

Dean frowned. "Sounds like it could be a Black Dog, then."

The other two older men nodded. "Michigan isn't far — few hours' drive. Why can't your friend deal with this Bobby?"

"She's not really a hunter but she keeps an eye out for anything supernatural." Bobby explained and Dean could have sworn he saw the grizzled hunter turn red beneath his beard.

"Okay." John said. "Let's hit the road."

Bobby nodded as he watched the Winchesters packing up their duffle bags. Work always took his mind off his own loss, his beloved wife Karen, and he knew it did the same for John and Dean. If only for a little while, at least. The veteran hunter watched as the Winchesters pulled out of the motel parking lot, one in a classic '67 Chevy Impala, the other in an imposing, black truck and felt saddened by the fact that the third member of their family was not with them. Bobby sighed and climbed into his own vehicle, not looking forward to the long drive back to South Dakota.

**SNSNSNSNSN**

Sam Wesson woke up as soon as the alarm clock rang. Hitting the  _OFF_  button quickly so as not to rouse his brother, Sam silently climbed out of bed and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He grabbed his jacket, pulling it off the back of one of the motel room's chairs and slipped outside.

Sam brushed his brown, longish hair out of his eyes and began walking toward the small diner at the end of the street.

Knowing that his brother would not wake up until he had returned, Sam enjoyed the quiet morning and the orange and pink sky despite the buildings obscuring most of the sunrise.

Sam smiled shyly — with deep and gorgeous dimples standing out on his cheeks — at the motherly-figured waitress who took his order at the diner and thanked her politely when she came back with his food.

Sam searched in his jacket pockets, more and more frantically once he realized he didn't have nearly enough money to pay for the breakfast.

"I'm sorry." Sam apologized, feeling ashamed as he ducked his head down.

"Don't worry about it, hon." The waitress said and smiled, feeling compassionate towards the young boy's kicked-puppy-expression. "You go on."

Sam gave a small smile and nodded gratefully, leaving the diner with his shoulders slumped. He didn't want to be embarrassed like that again but he was afraid to ask his brother for more money, because it didn't go too well the last time he did, even though it was out of necessity.

**SNSNSNSNSN**

Rick Wesson opened his eyes as soon as his younger brother stepped through the door.

"About time." He snapped angrily and sat up. "I was thinking you left me, Sammy."

Sam shook his head quickly and took two cups of coffee from their holder, handing one to his brother and keeping the other for himself.

"What'd you get?" Rick grabbed the paper take-out bag as he sat at the motel's small table. "Better not be pancakes again."

Sam waited for his brother to pull a Styrofoam container of bacon and eggs out before taking his own breakfast out. He watched Rick dig into his fried eggs for a moment and then carefully picked the paper off his blueberry muffin.

He was almost finished with his breakfast when Rick took a drink of his coffee and then quickly spat it out as if he'd just drank motor oil instead, face scrunching up in disgust.

Sam almost choked on his muffin as his brother tore the lid off the cup and held it out to him, sloshing the liquid inside as he shook it slightly.

"Does this look like black coffee to you?" Rick questioned furiously.

Sam obediently looked at the java, wilting and gulping nervously when he saw the coffee clearly had milk or cream in it.

"You know I hate anything in my coffee!" Rick yelled, narrowing his oval eyes at his younger sibling as though he thought Sam was trying to poison him.

"I — I'm sorry." Sam apologized quietly, his eyes casting downward. "It was an accident." He swallowed again, heart hammering rapidly against his ribs and his gut squeezing with fear.

"Oh, it was an accident." Rick smiled viciously. "Well, that changes everything."

The older Wesson brother stood up, hand still gripping the cup and Sam was suddenly afraid his brother was going to throw the hot coffee at him again, because it was exactly what he did the last time such an incident happened.

But instead, he walked over to Sam's duffel bag and poured the coffee over the unzipped bag.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sam." Rick apologized mockingly. "It slipped."

Rick tossed the cup in the garbage can and sat back down. He looked steadily into his younger sibling's hazel eyes for a moment, as if daring Sam to say something, waiting for his head to duck down in defeat, before going back to his breakfast.

He was almost finished with his food when the phone rang throughout the whole room, causing Sam's head snap up at the sound. Cursing, Rick brushed his hands together and then dug into his pockets for his phone, pulling it out and pressing it to his ear with one hand. "What?" He snapped irritably, causing Sam to flinch slightly at the sharpness of his tone, the same tone that had been used on him his whole life, never once spoken to with gentleness.

" _What's got_ _ **your**_ _panties in a wad so early in the morning_?" Bobby's gruff voice greeted him from the other line.

"Oh, hey Bobby. Sorry about that by the way." Rick apologized, grinning slightly.

" _Yeah sure, whatever_." Bobby brushed off the apology, and Rick could just imagine the older hunter waving vaguely as he said it. " _So me and a couple of good friends of mine need some help on a hunt in Auburn Hills, Michigan. It's a black dog. Turns out there were two of them instead'a one, and that's why I've called you two idjits for this one. You up for it_?"

"Sure, why not?" Rick replied, shrugging casually. "We'll be there."

" _Good_." Bobby replied gruffly on the other line. " _I'll text ya the location_."

"Yeah okay, bye."

" _Bye, and take care of yerselves_."

"Will do." Rick answered, and hung up the phone.

Sam was already packing his and his brother's bags as he knew Rick didn't like wasting his time.

**SNSNSNSNSN**

Dean, for a split moment, felt deeply saddened by the word ' _brothers_ ' as it reminded him explicitly of his own baby brother, but quickly pushed those agonizing emotions and reminders into the back of his mind. John seemingly noticed the pain flashing across his older son's face at the word, but said nothing, all the while ignoring his own sorrow.

It's funny how such a simple word can actually cause so much heartache.

"So, uh — what are their names?" Dean asked casually.

Bobby came back with three beer bottles in his hand, handing one to John and one to Dean, keeping the last one for himself as he sat down on the chair, facing the two Winchesters sitting on the foot of their beds. "Well, the older one's twenty-five, Rick Wesson is his name — and the younger one, Sam, is only seventeen."

  


 


	3. Chapter 3

Sam sat silently in the passenger seat of his brother's bright orange 1962 Thunderbird, his eyes flickering nervously to his companion every once in a while. As much as Sam wanted to ask Rick about the hunt, he knew his brother was still pissed off about his coffee, and he knew speaking up would not be wise. Sam hoped sincerely that the prospect of a new case would temper Rick's anger down, and maybe then he could interrogate and find out a bit. Sam cringed when Rick turned the radio on, rock music blaring from the speakers at an eardrum shattering volume.

The T-Bird tore up the miles towards Auburn Hills, the two brothers quiet as they headed towards their destination.

 

**...**

 

"So what's their story?" Dean asked casually after taking a generous swallow of beer, even though his feelings betrayed his tone. He was quite curious about these two, for some odd reason, especially the youngest one. He knew he shouldn't be so surprised, a lot of hunters were younger than this when they first started hunting, including himself, but he knew there was more to it than he already heard, which wasn't exactly much.

Bobby looked at the young man. "You wanna know why they're all alone, hunting by themselves?"

Dean nodded slightly. Even though he knew of many hunters who were solitary either by choice or some twist of fate — he was still curious about the two brothers.

"Their Daddy was a military man." Bobby explained, his eyes turning on John now. "Richard Wesson fought in Vietnam as well, came back home and married his high-school sweetheart."

Dean nodded attentively; that was not very different to what had happened to his own father.

"Wesson couldn't find a decent job and settled for driving transport trucks across the country." Bobby continued."That left his wife — Carol, I think her name was — at home to raise Rick."

The grizzled hunter took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't know all the details of what happened. Wesson never told me outright, but I heard enough from the other hunters. The boys were still quite young — Sam was just two years old and Rick was ten — when their mother was seduced by a Gancanagh — "

Dean sat up and interrupted. "What's that?"

"One of the Fair Folk." Bobby grumbled, annoyed that he had to explain. John simply drank his beer and listened, since he already knew a bit about Wesson's story, he didn't have any questions so far.

"They're attractive and they prey on women and girls." Bobby continued. "They've got an addictive toxin in their skin that acts like a drug . . . the women usually die from withdrawal."

Dean grimaced sympathetically. "So, that's what happened to Carol Wesson?"

Bobby nodded. "I guess with Richard being away so much, she got lonely and the Gancanagh found her as an easy target. They're a nasty sort, ya know, making vulnerable women fall in love with them and then disappearing; killing only for their own entertainment."

"What about the boys?" John asked, startling both his son and Bobby.

"Rick called 911 when Carol became ill, or I think a neighbour or friend found out — I'm not really sure which — and Richard was contacted by the local hospital when his wife was taken in." Bobby explained.

"After Carol died, Wesson quit trucking and sought out the monster that had killed his wife, taking his sons with him." Bobby finished. "That's about all I know. Richard taught his boys to hunt before he passed away; had a stroke when his oldest was eighteen and Rick became Sam's legal guardian."

Bobby shrugged. "They usually keep to themselves. Richard wasn't exactly the friendliest sort and liked his privacy. Rick's like his Papa, in more ways than just his name. I'll hear from him from time to time, but mostly he just stays away from other hunters."

Dean pulled back the rest of his beer and stood, stretching. "Are they good hunters?"

If Rick and Sam Wesson had learned to hunt like he and Adam had, then they clearly knew what they were doing. Dean did not want to find himself with two incompetent hunters while on the trail of not one but  _two_  Black Dogs — even with his Dad by his side.

"Rick's as ruthless as hell and Sam can follow orders." Bobby confirmed rather vaguely.

John nodded. "That's good to hear."

Dean frowned. He wasn't sure if he meant that Rick could apparently hold his own in the midst of battle or that his brother wouldn't screw up.

Dean grimaced, thinking of his own little brother. Although Adam hadn't liked hunting he had tried . . . God knows he had tried so hard to please their father, had tried to make John proud of him . . . until he had just given up.

Shaking his head to dispel the depressing thoughts, Dean stood and set his empty bottle on the motel room's scuffed wooden table.

"When will they arrive?" He asked, turning his gaze on Bobby.

"A few hours yet." The grizzled hunter answered.

Dean nodded and went to one of the beds, grabbing his duffel bag and pulled out his gun, deciding to clean it as they waited.

 

**...**

 

Sam shifted restlessly in the passenger seat as a memory came into his dreams, clouding his blissful sleep with the deep ache of guilt in his heart that he usually kept hidden from the outside world.

_Sammy smiled up at his mother as she carefully tucked the blue blanket around him, the curtains in his room drawn for his afternoon nap._

" _Story?" Sammy asked, his puppy-eyes wide._

_His mother chuckled fondly and said, "I'll read to you before you go to bed tonight."_

_Sam decided that was a good idea and nodded with a large smile, snuggling into the soft sheets. His mother brushed his dark brown hair away from his face and kissed his brow._

_Standing straight, Sam's mother smoothed down the skirt of the light green dress she wore and walked to the door._

" _Sleep tight." She said in a light voice and closed the door, leaving it open about a half-inch._

_Sammy breathed a soft sigh and closed his eyes. He listened to the quiet pad of his mother's shoes as she walked down the carpeted hallway, his mind slowly drifting away from the living world._

_The loud peal of laughter woke Sam a short time later and he sat upright in bed, rubbing his eyes with his fists. The young infant listened, hearing the low rumble of a male voice — indistinct but certainly belonging to a man — and he smiled joyfully._

_Daddy's home! Sam flung his blanket away in excitement and carefully climbed down from his bed. He stopped in time to grab his favorite toy — a stuffed grey rabbit with a blue bow tie around its neck — and hurried down the hall._

_Sammy followed the voices, peering stealthily into the kitchen where his mother was sitting across from a man who was not his Daddy._

_The man had curly brown hair and light brown eyes, and he was holding his mother's hand over the table._

_Suddenly, the stranger turned his gaze on Sam and the boy shrank back a little in fright._

" _And who's this young man?" The man asked in a funny voice, a pale clay pipe held clenched between his teeth._

_Sam's mother turned to him and her brows knitted together. "Sammy, you're supposed to be sleeping."_

_Sam cautiously stepped into the kitchen, hugging his toy to his chest. His mother scooped him up and looked apologetically at the man who was not her husband._

" _I'll just put him back to bed." Carol said, holding Sam tightly against her chest._

_She turned so that Sam could see the man lean back in his chair and cross one leg over the other._

" _Who's he?" Sam mumbled, his hazel eyes already drifting closed._

" _He's just a friend, Sammy." His mother said softly. "A very special friend."_

_They reached the room and his Mom placed him back in the bed, draping his blue blanket over him once again._

" _You can't tell Daddy or Ricky about him, okay?" His mother said, looking slightly frantic as she lifted his blanket higher to his shoulders. "It'll be our secret." She whispered softly as he ran a hand through her baby's hair._

_Sammy liked secrets; knowing them made him feel like a big boy, like his brother who was ten and went to school._

" _Okay Mommy." Sam said sleepily. "I won't tell."_

_Carol gazed down at her son with a shaky smile, her hand trembling lightly as she brushed his bangs away from his forehead. "There's a good boy."_

_Sam smiled as his mother kissed his brow again and walked out of the room. Rolling onto his side, Sam hugged his stuffed rabbit to his chest and snuggled into the blankets. Mommy was always so sad whenever Daddy had to leave, but this special friend made her smile and Sam just knew he was a good guy._

Sam startled out of sleep and blinked rapidly against the fog in his vision. He looked out of the window and observed; it was just the beginning of evening, and the sun was almost touching the tops of the buildings they blurred by.

Sam twisted his body towards his brother, gathering up the courage to voice out his simple question. Rick had long since turned off the radio, and was now driving in silence.

"W-where are we?" Sam ventured hesitantly, all the while trying to push away the dredges of his dream from his mind.

"Pontiac." Rick deigned to answer. "We'll be in Auburn Hills in twelve or fifteen minutes."

Sam straightened in his seat and breathed a small sigh of relief — either at not being screamed at, or getting out of this confined space that was filled with nothing but discomfort and fear, he wasn't sure — and he raised his hands to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

 

**...**

 

Rick consulted his cell phone before pulling into the parking lot of the Hills Motel, stopping before the front doors and leaving the engine idling.

Sam waited patiently as his brother checked them into a room.

The youngest Wesson sighed as he stared at the motel's façade; the office and the outlying rooms were all covered in pale yellow siding and had weathered brown tiles on their roofs, the door to every room was coated in peeling white paint and had a brass number above the peepholes.

Sam wondered if the motel had its own laundry facilities; most of the clothes in his duffel bag were stained with coffee from Rick's 'accident' that morning, and he really needed to have them washed because he wasn't very fond of the idea of walking around in clothes that have weird brown spots on them.

Stopping in front of the very last room, Rick killed the T-Bird's engine and exited the vehicle, keeping both of the keys. Rick didn't give him the luxury of wielding the keys, hell, he wouldn't even allow him to go out unless he had to, for food or groceries mostly. He was practically a slave to his brother, not allowed to do anything without his permission.

He stepped onto the curb and right to the door, Sam moving slower than his brother with his stiff legs. Sam was already tall for his age, about one and a half inches taller than his brother, but he wasn't as strong and muscular as Rick, instead having a skinny and lanky figure, and the classic car was not certainly designed for especially long-legged people.

Sam stretched as he closed the T-Bird's door, careful not to slam it or else bring the wrath of Rick down on his head. Sam moved around the back of the car, unlocking the trunk and grabbing their duffels — his bag smelling strongly of old coffee and sporting a dark brown stain over its top — before meeting his brother at the door of the motel room.

Rick entered their temporary home first, grimacing in disgust at the parquet floors and paneling that went half-way up the walls — the top half painted a greenish-grey that made Sam think repulsively of boogers — before deeming the room fit. The older Wesson grabbed his bag from Sam and set it on one of the beds, and then reached into his pockets for his cell phone.

Sam was relieved that the room had two beds. During the last hunt they'd been on, Rick had forgotten to ask for a room with two single beds and had ended up with one queen-sized one. Sam had been made to sleep on the hard floor — which had some very creepy stains on them, and he couldn't sworn there was a rat hole in one corner of the wall — for the duration of the case, and his back still twinged whenever he thought about it.

"I'll let Bobby know we're here." Rick said absently, speaking mostly to himself.

"Okay." Sam mumbled inaudibly and sat down on his bed, staring at the duffel uncertainly.

"Go get me something to eat." Rick demanded suddenly as he turned to him, his cell phone pressed against his ear. "I'm starving."

Uh . . . oh.

Sam slowly stood up, but didn't act any further, fiddling nervously with the hem of his gray t-shirt and stared at his brother's shoes, waiting for him to finish talking to Bobby.

"Hey! Yeah, we just got here." Rick spoke jovially to the grizzled hunter on the other end of the line. "We're just gonna get a bite to eat and then get down to business, alright?"

Rick paused, listening as Bobby spoke. "Yeah . . . okay . . . uh, we're in room twenty."

Sam's palms became slick with sweat, his heartbeat racing faster. He hated asking his brother for anything.

"Are you deaf? What are you waiting for?" Rick snapped irritably and Sam looked up in fear.

"R-Rick . . . uh . . . about dinner," Sam mumbled, trying to pick his words carefully.

"Spit it out!" Rick growled and Sam's instantly flinched back a step, his head snapping up as he quickly glanced at his brother before looking down again.

"I — I don't have any money to pay for dinner." Sam explained hurriedly and waited for his brother to explode.

Rick didn't disappoint.

"What the fuck did you do with all the money I gave you?!" He yelled angrily, rising to his feet, and finding satisfaction at the flinch he earned from his brother. He liked it, because it made him feel more in control, of himself, of his brother, and he loved control.

"I-I used it." Sam whispered softly. "The l-last of it paid for breakfast."

Rick narrowed his eyes at his brother as though he didn't believe Sam, as though he thought Sam had been spending the money behind his back.

Rick growled angrily and snarled, tearing his wallet from his jeans' pocket and shoved a handful of bills at Sam's face without counting them.

Sam swallowed and reached down for the money without comment, picking it up and folding it, and then placing it into the pocket of his own jeans.

_It could have gone worse_ , Sam thought to himself.

Before he left the room Rick spoke up once more. "If I find any rabbit food on my burger, I'm going to kick your ass."

Sam cringed slightly and gazed down at the ground, knowing that his brother's threat was not an empty one.

 

**...**

 

Rick bit into his burger with gusto; clearly he hadn't been exaggerating when he'd claimed he was starving.

Sam stared at his usual food, a small muffin, having no appetite. He was thinking about his dream instead. He should have said something to someone about the man — the monster — but he had kept his mother's secret. He should have told his father or even his brother. When he had finally spoken up — out of childish innocence after the funeral — he soon realized his mistake. He might still have been able to save his mother if he had talked . . . but he hadn't. It was his fault his mother was dead, and his father and brother never let him forget it.

A sharp knock on their door caused both brothers to look up. Rick jerked his chin in the direction of the door and Sam stood shakily, wiping his hands on his pants.

Looking carefully through the peephole, Sam relaxed somewhat when he saw Bobby. Opening the door, Sam gave the older hunter a small smile.

Bobby grinned back. "Hiya, Sammy. Hope we're not interrupting anything."

Sam shrugged casually and moved out of the way so Bobby could enter.

"I brought a couple of friends with me, if you don't mind." The grizzled hunter commented and this time Rick stood up too, wiping his face on a diner napkin.

"That's fine." He said and stepped forward. "We were just about finished anyway."

Bobby quickly took in Rick's half-eaten hamburger and Sam's picked-at muffin with a raised eyebrow.

"Anyways." Bobby said, scratching his head beneath his baseball cap. "I thought we could get the whole group together, make introductions and plans and the like. I wanna nip these two beasties in the bud before they get worse."

"How can they get worse?" Rick asked and Bobby just rolled his eyes.

"We're afraid that those Black Dogs aren't just here together by coincidence." Bobby grumbled. "We think they might be mates."

Sam gulped nervously. That wasn't good.

"So, are you going to keep us in suspense Bobby, or are we actually going to meet the Winchesters?" Rick asked, smirking.

"You're an idjit." Bobby deadpanned and went to the opened door. "Alright, c'mon in."

John Winchester entered first;  _tall and broad-shouldered, with a rugged face, aquiline nose, dark eyes and salt-and-pepper hair_ , Sam mused observantly. He was also dressed casually in jeans, boots and a button-up flannel shirt underneath a black leather jacket.

"So you're Richard Wesson's boys." John rumbled and smiled, extending a hand to Sam, who was standing closest to him.

Sam shook John's hand, thinking that the smile changed John Winchester's face completely; he didn't look so much like a Roman Centurion, but an old teddy bear when he wasn't frowning.

Rick nudged Sam out of the way and introduced himself.

Dean entered the motel room more hesitantly than his father had done. He was tall — though not as tall as Sam — with short, light brown hair and emerald-green orbs. He dressed in much the same way as John, flannel and leather and denim.

Dean seemed to relax more once he was inside, and he straightened, even risking a broadened smile.

"I'm Dean." He introduced, facing the younger Wesson. "And you're Sam? Pretty tall for your age, aren't you?" He leaned in slightly and asked humorously, "Did your parents feed you Miracle-Grow when you were a baby or something?" He grinned widely.

He furrowed his eyebrows slightly as he had a closer look at the boy, and tried to push down and hide the sudden concern and protectiveness he felt when he caught sight of the bruises on the young boy's face.

Sam smiled shyly — the dimples standing out prominently on his cheeks — at the joke and shook his head. "No, nothing like that. Just lucky I guess." Years of emotional and physical pain had stripped him of his confidence, but for some reason, he felt comfortable and . . . and free in Dean's sudden company. The feeling was quite foreign to him, because he couldn't remember a single time of feeling it, and that made him want to sob.

Because Rick was never like this with him, he never joked around with him, and talked to him in that playful tone, or allowed him to be free.

Because he always feared talking in front of his brother, and he hated how he spent most of his life being silent, only talking when talked to or when it was necessary.

Dean's heart warmed at the smile, much like when he heard his own baby brother's laugh. He still remembered what it sounded like; bright, carefree and infectious, and sometimes when he thought of it, he caught himself smiling, a true, honest smile, unlike the cocky grins that he had mastered at faking.

He internally shook his head off the thoughts that are only bound to cause him more grief, and his eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled again and turned his attention to Rick.

"Nice T-Bird out there." He said and Rick beamed proudly; Sam could see him gearing up to start bragging about the vintage car.

 

**...**

 

In no time at all, the Winchesters, Wessons and Bobby were sitting around the tiny motel table, a map spread out with X's marking the sites where victims had been found, discussing the best plan of attack. Rick was in his element, trumpeting any idea that came to mind and more than prepared to argue if he didn't think something was going to work.

Sam sat a little bit outside of the circle, watching the hunters quietly. He felt slightly left out, but otherwise he enjoyed not having much attention on him, because it made him feel a bit self-conscious and awkward. Although a few times Dean had asked him what he thought and Sam could only shrug and say, "Whatever Rick thinks is best."

He liked how Dean had tried to include him though. Rick never did that. He would decide what was going to happen and then tell Sam what he was expected to do for his part in their hunts.

**SNSNSNSNSN**

Sam checked his gun to make sure he had enough silver bullets and followed Rick out to the car. His brother and Dean were laughing about some joke and Sam frowned, wondering they were talking about and what was so funny, and wishing he could also be involved.

Sam shook his head. Dean and Rick weren't going to become friends. His brother liked his privacy and after this hunt they'd probably never see the Winchesters again.

Still, Sam cringed as Rick continued to chuckle — having witnessed him to be mostly cranky and angry for all his life would do that — as he slid into the driver's seat and put the key in the ignition, the T-Bird roaring to life. Sam closed his door and reached out to pull his seatbelt across his chest when his brother's hand snaked out and grabbed his wrist in a bruising grip.

Sam flinched violently, his face scrunched slightly in pain as he swallowed hard, peering at Rick's face which was shadowed by the moth-smeared light outside their motel room.

"Don't fuck this up, Sammy." Rick hissed; his eyes cold and hard. He stared his younger brother down until Sam lowered his gaze and nodded.

Releasing his hold on Sam's wrist, Rick grinned fiendishly and turned on the radio.

"Let's raise a little hell!"

  


 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for physical and emotional abuse ahead. Please proceed with caution. If this is triggering, please skip the chapter.

Rick's features were cold and stony as he walked inside, closing the door slowly with his back turned towards his brother. He may have looked calm to anyone else, but Sam was well aware of the degree of fury that was burning inside his brother, enraged by what happened on the hunt.

Sam stood up quickly from the bed, swallowing hard at the expression on his brother's face. Rick had driven off to the nearest bar — hence the glassy eyes and stumbling steps — as soon as he left Sam at the motel after snapping at him to 'shut the fuck up and leave me alone' when Sam tried to apologize.

Everyone thought the hunt was going quite well at first; the Black Dogs were easy to take down with more hunting partners and a small, confined area where the monsters barely had any chance at escape. Bobby and Dean took the smaller of the two Black Dogs, which had run off deeper into the woods after being shot in the side and right leg — to which Dean irritably commented on the beast's stubbornness — before chasing after the monster. Rick, Sam and John scattered around and surrounded the other, the larger and stronger Black Dog, shooting it thrice in its left thigh and once in its right calf to weaken it and prevent it from also running like its companion, before it crumpled and fell, its chest heaving and breaths coming out in heavy pants.

That's when things started going wrong.

Sam was so engrossed in his aim as he shifted his feet to the side that he didn't notice a large, heavy rock lying in his way as he moved to a place where he could get a good view and shoot the monster right on the mark. He also didn't notice his older brother, standing right beside the rock on the other side.

And thus, he tripped over said rock and collided with Rick, causing them both to fall in a messy heap and also bruise Sam's ankle along the process. There was a sound of an explosion — Rick's gun going off — and then a brief scream from far away.

And when they looked over, they saw John holding his shoulder with his face scrunched up in pain, blood seeping through his hands from the wound. Fortunately and unfortunately, that was the time when Bobby and Dean decided to join them again. The Wesson brothers quickly got to their feet and killed the remaining Black Dog — with a few extra shots to the head to make sure it was dead — and then focused their entire attention on the injured hunter. Dean wasn't very happy at seeing his father bleeding and hurt, demanding answers, and Rick was the one who started apologizing profusely, while Sam just stood off to one side silently even with his ankle aching like hell, heart racing fast and his limbs trembling with terror as he realized what he had brought down upon his head.

_"I'm really sorry, man." Rick apologized, simpering. "My brother here . . . " He pointed at Sam. "He must have tripped over that rock there and crashed into me, screwing up my aim."_

_Sam swallowed hard, terror coloring his expression, his eyes wide with fear while his head was ducked down, hiding behind his bangs and just wishing he could disappear into thin air. He didn't want to think about what Rick is going to do to him as soon as they get back to their motel room, but it was all he could think of; so many different scenarios flooding his mind on how his older brother's going to punish him for this mistake._

_"It's okay, guys. It's just a flesh wound anyway, nothin' we haven't dealt with before, right Dean?" John said, his tone insisting Dean to agree and not lose his temper on the poor hunters. It was an accident after all; could have happened to anyone._

_Except . . . Dean didn't sound even slightly angry. "It's nothing new in our line of work, you know. Don't sweat it, Sammy," He said with a reassuring smile, seemingly noticing the distress and fear on the kid's face even though he could only catch a glimpse of it; the trembling of the younger hunter's limbs didn't go unseen by Dean either and he frowned in confusion. He expected the boy to nod and maybe say something about being more careful on future hunts but the fear on Sam's face seemed etched into his features and didn't disappear at Dean's words._

_Sam barely contained the flinch at the nickname — having been called that mockingly by his brother a lot in the past and still in the present — and swallowed thickly, nodding jerkily. He truly felt guilty for what he had done, really guilty, but he knew that wouldn't be enough for Rick._

Sam was snapped out of his reverie by a sharp pain shooting across his cheekbone, and found himself lying on the floor, the edges of his vision blurring at the impact. He looked up at his older brother's hateful and angry gaze, a snarl twisting Rick's features as he stared down at him.

And Sam couldn't stop himself from ducking his head again, trying to hide behind his bangs from the intensity of Rick's furious gaze. There was a whiskey bottle in his aggressor's hand, and Rick brought it to his mouth to chug it down without even stopping to take a breath, his murderous gaze on his younger sibling the whole time. The content of the bottle was almost half empty before Rick jerked it out of his snarling mouth.

Rick glowered down at the figure lying below him, rage burning like flames in his olive orbs. He enjoyed the small satisfaction he felt at the fear in his victim's wide, lowered eyes; in the slight trembles of his limbs.

But it wasn't enough for him. He wanted more.

He wanted the younger boy to whimper, to cry, to sob; wanted his whole body to quake as he  _begged_ , he wanted his brother to stutter and trip over his words; he wanted to see pure, unadulterated  _terror_  in his eyes. Sam deserved it, for what he had done.

"You humiliated me." He whispered angrily, his voice slurring drunkenly from the alcohol in his system; an enraged snarl twisting his features.

"M'sorry." Sam whispered softly, swallowing hard as tears gathered on the edges of his eyes. His heart pounded rapidly against his ribcage, fear clenching his gut; and suddenly, the temperature in the room felt a few degrees higher.

Sam gasped loudly and dropped to the ground instinctively when the glass bottle shot over his head, crashing into the wall behind him; and the shards rained down over his prostrate form, some of them cutting through the fabric and biting into his skin.

"YOU  _ **FUCKING**_ HUMILIATED ME! AND NOW YOU'RE TELLING ME YOU'RE SORRY?!" Rick screamed at the curled up figure that was trying to make itself smaller with each bellowed word, red hot rage filling his entire being and burning his chest.

Sam's body shamefully trembled, the tears being caged in his eyes released as tiny droplets of salty water fell and soaked the carpet, the fabric absorbing the dampness in; and he tried his hardest to hold the pent up sobs building in his throat.

But a small shaky one emerged from his lips before he could stop it.

And he froze.

Because he wasn't supposed to cry. It only made Rick even more furious, which meant more punishment and more pain; and he desperately hoped his brother didn't notice; didn't hear that small sound.

Then he was being pulled up against his will, standing on his knees with a fist curled tightly into both sides of his shirt.

Rick squinted at him through his drunken vision, bent down slightly as he scrutinized his younger sibling's bowed face. Shuddery breaths warmed his face, and he laughed darkly as he saw the droplets of tears fall on the floor.

And then his expression morphed into something else, something that visibly resembled pure disgust and profound hate. "Fucking baby." He snarled angrily, his voice low.

He kicked his boot swift and hard into his victim's gut, smiling with sick amusement at the soft gasp he elicited from him. He felt two hands clench into the lower part of his shirt, and he looked down to find his brother using it to hold himself up on his knees, his twisted features an open display of pain and fear.

And soon, that fear would transform into terror. Rick would make sure of that.

  


 


	5. Chapter 5

After pulling the bullet out of his flesh with a tweezer, cleaning the blood with an antiseptic and stitching the wound shut, Dean wrapped the roll of gauze over his father's shoulder, tying the ends into knots twice and then tightening it to ensure it doesn't loosen. He heard a low grunt emanate from his father as it pressurized the wound, but then the motel room quickly fell back into the prior silence.

Dean picked up the bottle of Tylenol from the first aid box, twisted the lid, and shook out two pills. He set them on his father's outstretched palm and stood up from the chair he was sitting on, heading towards the bathroom.

As he filled up a glass of water for John, he allowed his mind to drift towards  _him_.

Towards Sam.

Even after he reassured the kid that everything was okay, he still looked afraid. Why?

Just about an hour ago, right outside their temporary residence, he watched that fear haunt his sad hazel eyes as they met his own for a brief moment; saw it linger on his face as he disappeared into his own room, while his older brother drove off somewhere else; possibly a bar.

But there was something more.

Acceptance. For what, Dean didn't know.

He closed his green eyes and rattled those thoughts out of his head. He didn't even know why he was giving so much consideration to this, didn't know why he even cared or why he was so concerned about him. He didn't know why he felt that rush of protectiveness when he saw those bruises on his face the first time he laid his eyes on him or why his laughter made his heart swell with warmth like it did with Adam's. He didn't know why his thoughts kept wandering to him while he was hunting that black dog; his mind flooding with the horrifying images of him getting hurt, and constantly worrying that they'll come true.

He didn't know why he had this horrible feeling that something was really wrong in that kid's life.

He didn't know why he wanted to make it better.

**O*o*O**

John watched as his son emerged from the bathroom, returning to his side on the chair and handing him the glass of water.

He took the glass in one hand and dropped the painkillers into his mouth with the other, then he began to drink the water slowly, eying Dean in wonder the whole time like he had been ever since they got into the car.

"What?" Dean asked, his eyebrow raising as he caught his father's eyes on him in his peripheral vision once again and he could no longer ignore it.

John retreated the glass away from his lips when he finished and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth as he shook his head. "Nothing." He answered as if he hadn't been staring at his son for the past two hours, setting the now empty glass on the night table and reclining back on his bed.

"You  _were_  thinking something." Dean pressed, staring at him warily.

"Forget it, Dean." John replied wearily, waving a hand dismissively.

But Dean's curiosity got the best of him this time, so he couldn't let this go. "Come on, Dad! Don't leave me hanging here."

John remained silent for a short while, contemplating whether he should tell him or not, before he sighed quietly in defeat. "Well, I was just thinking..." he ran off, stopping briefly to gather and phrase the words in his head. Then after a while, he started again,"...Do you remember that incident like four years ago or something, when we were hunting a chupacabra with Richard and Fred Davidson?"

At Dean's blank stare, John sighed again and added, "Wyoming, Cheyenne? Cousins?"

Recognition dawned on Dean's face. "Oh yeah, those guys. We separated on the hunt, them and us. We didn't find the monster on our side, so we decided to go back to them. But it was dark so they probably mistook us for the chupacabra, and Fred almost shot you because of it."

"Yeah. Remember how you tore his head off for it after we killed the monster?"

Most parts of that memory have faded in his mind, but he still remembered how terrified and angry he was, with almost perfect clarity. He remembered how the only thought that ran through his mind was that, this very day, he might just have lost the only family member he had left now if things had gone differently, and for the worse.

He nodded, his eyebrows lifting expectantly for further elaboration.

"So... what changed? I mean, don't get me wrong. It's not that I wanted you to threaten that kid on how 'you would've shot him dead before he even hit the ground if his stupidity led us somewhere even worse,' but, I'm just wondering," he voiced, sounding almost amused as he spoke.

Dean couldn't help but ask himself how his father still even remembered something that was said four years ago, word by word.

But looking at things now from a whole new level, he could really see what his father meant, and the slight similiarity between the events. Hell, if he could compare the two to see which one could've led them in deeper crap, he could honestly say that the recent one was much worse since his father actually  _did_  get shot, albeit not fatal but still, whereas with Fred, he  _almost_  did.

With Fred, he was furious. He was terrified of the alternative, of what might have happened instead. He spent days thinking, worrying, about it. With Sam, it was different. He didn't think much on it, but just let it go with a gratitude that things haven't gone worse than it could've been. He didn't know why, but he just couldn't bring himself to be mad at the kid.

He vaguely wondered if it had something to do with his puppy eyes.

He knew what his father wanted to know. He wanted to know why he didn't do the same with Sam; why he let him off so easily without even a single bad glance directed at him. But how could he answer him any of that, when he didn't really understand it himself?

So he just stayed silent, hoping that his dad would take pity on him and let him off.

But that didn't happen.

"Dean?" John pressed, staring at him questioningly, his expression curious.

Dean  _really_  wished those painkillers would take effect  _right now_.

"Dean, you made me tell you what I was thinking. Now it's your turn to do the same," he persisted, still looking at him expectantly.

He closed his eyes, letting the quietness surround him for a moment before he opened them again and spoke lowly, "I... I honestly don't know it either," Dean answered truthfully, his eyebrows scrunched and mouth pursed in deep thought and confusion as he stared at his hands. Then he sighed heavily, slowly lifting a hand to drag it down his face and through his short dirty blonde hair. He searched for the right words. "I... I guess I just... when I saw how scared and guilty he felt, I guess I just... couldn't, you know? Be mad at him."

John nodded slightly, his ears listening and brown eyes understanding as he witnessed his son's puzzlement.

"Kind of like with your brother," he said quietly after a short while of silence, somewhat hesitant. It had been a long time since they've mentioned the youngest member of their family, aloud and sober, even though there has never been a day when they haven't thought of him.

Dean's heart jolted at the mention of his baby brother, the two words hanging in the air of the open distance between them, and for a moment, that was all he could hear ringing in his ears. But then the complete statement finally sunk into his mind, and he asked, his brows melding together, "What?"

John looked up from his hands, and straight into his son's bewildered green eyes. "You could barely get mad at... at Adam," He swallowed shakily as a thin line of unshed tears shone on the edges of his eyes, and he squeezed them shut as if it physically hurt ( _which it did_ ) to even  _say_  his baby boy's name, knowing that he'll never be able to see his face again, or talk to him and hear his voice.

Sometimes he dreamed of him ( _he knew Dean did too. He would sometimes hear him whisper his brother's name in the cold, moon-lit room, his voice full of awe and love and_ hope). He dreamed of old memories, of a time when things were much lighter and easier than now, of laughter and joy. Of him and Dean and Adam, happy and smiling. Of a feeling, like there wasn't anything you needed more in life in that moment. Of feeling  _complete_ ( _Their life was never really perfect but it was moments like those that made it worth living_ ). There were times when he'd realize that it was all a dream, so he'd hold his youngest and say all the things he should have said because he knew that when he'd wake up, he wouldn't be there anymore.

And they would feel so real, with his baby boy standing right in of him, palpable and alive and smiling and laughing with him. But then he'd open his eyes to the darkness of the room (of t _he painful reality_ ), and it'd all fade away, and Adam would be gone again, his hopes shattered into a thousand pieces.

Even the temporary comfort and happiness in those dreams weren't enough. They could never be enough. It only left him longing and wishing more,  _hurting_  more. It only emphasized the feeling of his missing family member, the anguish of what he lost.

And sometimes, the pain got so bad that he'd reach for the whiskey bottle, even though he knew that not even a thousand gallons of alcohol in his system could ever wash away or fully numb the agony that came along with his son's death.

He didn't even know how he made it this far.

"When he did something wrong, when he'd make a mistake... all it took was one look at his guilty and sorry face, and you'd break down," John replied. "You seem to feel the same with that kid."

Dean's throat bobbed as he swallowed, burning holes into the floor as he thought. What his father said seemed much closer to the truth than far. Sure, the connection wasn't as deep as the kind you'd feel for family. You can never feel that way for some mere stranger that you only met today.

But that didn't mean it wasn't there.

He hoped that it had nothing to do with the desperation he felt to fill that empty hole in his chest ever since the day his baby brother left him.

"The kid isn't that much different from him either," John began. "I mean, he's got those puppy eyes that could melt any stone-hearted person, just like Adam did. He loves books and learning, from what Bobby told us. He's really shy and timid around strangers..."

"What are you trying to say, Dad?" Dean cut him off, his curiosity covered by the slight bit of exasperation in his rough voice.

John fell silent at that for a few seconds, but then sighed heavily. "I'm saying that... that I think Sam reminds you of...of Adam," he paused and swallowed hard, whether because of the weight that formed in his throat at the name or the hesitance he felt at saying what he was going to say, he didn't know.

"I think you see your brother in him."

 

**...**

 

As soon as his father went to sleep, with the pills in his system making him feel drowsy and sleepy, Dean left the room.

He needed a bar, and he needed one fast.

It had been such a long time since they've talked about... about Adam. Years passed, and they never spoke a word about him until now. They came close on a few occasions, when something would remind them of past moments, and it'd almost slip out. But it never really happened.

Dean preferred to keep it that way. Because talking about his little brother... it  _hurts_.

He wondered if what his Dad told him was true. Could that really be the reason why he felt so drawn to that kid? Now that he actually think about it, Sam was quite similiar with Adam in almost everything but his appearance, what with his personality traits; polite and shy and quiet around people he didn't know very well. And his interests; reading things and learning new stuff. Bobby told him quite a few things about him, and the old man seemed quite fond of him too. He was intelligent and smart, a straight As kid, and definitely someone who could make it into a big university like Harvard or Stanford and live a great life. Too bad his hunting life would never allow that. He was kind-hearted and he had a strong fondness for dogs ( _he thought about how Adam always wanted a dog_ ); Bobby told him about a time when he was staying at his house for a few days while his father and brother went off to hunt, when they were on their way back from a grocery store and he saw a hungry stray dog searching for food in the garbage, he gave it most of his snacks without a second thought. He was only seven at the time.

He wondered if his father also saw Adam in him.

" _I'm s-sorry_."

He halted in his steps, every one of his muscles stilled, his breaths held as he heard those words, that sound.

The sound between a strangled whimper and a pained, shaky sob, in a voice that almost resembled...

Sam's.

" _Please_."

It was the same pitiful sound again, but much more shakier and strained, and it gripped at Dean's heart tightly as the plea entered his ears. He could only think about how  _wrong_  it felt to hear it. That voice should've been shy and polite and sweet and young.

Not so small and choked and hurt and scared.

It was then that he moved again, when he released that shuddery breath that spoke of fear for a boy that he barely even knew. He looked up in the direction the voice was emanating from, and he found himself staring at the number plate of the room Sam and Rick were residing in. His heart began to pound rapidly against his sternum.

Dean headed towards the building, hoping against hope that what his mind was telling him wasn't true. That it was a simple misunderstanding, nothing more. Rick couldn't be like that...

Until he heard the next words.

  


 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for abuse.

The coarse leather of his brother's belt collided hard against his already bruised flesh as he curled up tighter on his throbbing side against the rough carpet, clutching at himself as he desperately tried to squeeze in tighter into himself, and he could feel a few trails of blood trickle lightly down the skin on his back. He blinked furiously against the tears burning in his eyes and held in the harsh sobs and strangled whimpers struggling to burst out of him, knowing they were only bound to make his abuser even more furious than he already was. He was burning with agony, every inch of him, screaming with blazing hot pain against the never-ending beatings that stormed down on him, his vision flashing white with anguish as merciless agony rippled through his body with every jarring pelt.

" _You kill everyone around you. You know why? 'Cause you're a big, worthless goddamn screw up who can't ever do anything right._ "

He wanted to press his hands against his ears so he couldn't hear his brother's crude, piercing words; scream as loud as he can just so he could drown them out; run far, far away if he could escape so he would never have to listen to them again.

" _Who knows? Maybe you'll kill me one day too, just like you killed Mom..._ "

Always reminded of his mistakes, his failures, of his value in life and to them. Never once told that it was okay, that it wasn't his fault, that he was more than just a worthless piece of shit who screwed up everything he ever did. That he was loved.

" _You're lucky I'm still keeping your useless ass around instead of tossing you out on it or feeding you to the next monster we hunt, just like you deserve. Pretty sure that's what anyone else would have done by now._ "

And the worst part was that he  _believed_ them. Believed everything his brother said to him, everything his father used to tell him. It was hard not to when it was all he ever heard his entire life.

_Don't scream. Don't cry._

Every kick against his body, every backhand against his cheek, every smack and punch, every lash across his back and torso; they hurt like hell, of course, sometimes to the point where he could barely move the next morning. At least, not without wincing in pain or releasing a gasp. But even then, they were probably never as hurtful as the words that came out of their mouths, words that made him want to vomit until his stomach flipped itself inside and out or to yell until his throat was raw and his own ears bled or cry until he ran out of tears and stopped breathing altogether. Sticks and stones? Bullshit.

_Don't say a word. Don't make a sound._

The racous strikes slammed down on him, one after another, making new long stretches of bruises on his body over old wounds and recent ones, some even breaking skin. A strangled whimper tore out of his throat, followed by a hurt, trembling sob as he silently prayed for them to stop. He tried to clamp his mouth shut, sank his teeth into his lip until he tasted blood on his tongue, tried not to say anything or make another sound and not piss Rick off even more by his pathetic cries and his display of weakness.

But he could only take so much. It didn't matter how hard he tried.

In the end, he always broke.

So when the agony that reached deep into his coiled, battered body drowned out all of his thoughts and consumed his abused mind, there wasn't much he could do to stop the desperately restrained cry that burst forth from his lips without his willing consent, which took away any sense of control that was still left within him and opened the way for the tears and sobs that he had tried so hard to keep down, and now they were wrenching out of him uncontrollably, shaky and strained and hard, and he couldn't do anything to stop it, not even the hand that he had pressed over his trembling mouth could muffle them completely and hold them in.

And he wished he could take it back, wished he had been stronger and had managed to stop himself before he fell into pieces right in front of his brother. But all he could was say,"I'm s-sorry."

He hated himself for it. Almost hated himself like Rick hated him, if not worse, but he just wanted the pain to end.

"Please."

But now it was only going to get worse.

 

**...**

 

"Shut the hell up, you worthless piece of shit!"

The emotion that Dean felt after denial was horror, his eyes widening with recognition of the fact that this voice truly did, in fact, belong to Rick. Then after that, he felt disgust as the harsh snaps of leather belts against flesh filled his ears, muffled by the door between. His stomach churned with revulsion and acid and nausea at the relevation of the older Wesson's true colors.

Which was then followed by fury.

Fury burning in his veins and chest like flames.

Because no one should do something so vile to their little brothers. No one should hurt their little brothers like that. Little brothers shouldn't be yelled at with such cruel words, shouldn't be taunted and told they were worthless, shouldn't be beaten and abused and made to cry.

Little brothers should be loved and cared for and protected (like Adam should have been).

 

**...**

 

Rick kicked the body beneath him one last time, his boot colliding into ribs hard, before he threw his belt to the ground, swaying on his feet with the alcohol still in his system and the fatigue falling over him from the sapped energy of teaching his useless brother a lesson.

"Hope y'u don' f'rget," he snarled down at the shaking form curled at his feet, his words slurring slightly. He turned away and began heading towards his temporary bed, his head buzzing and spinning.

But before he could reach it, a loud crash exploded in his ears, causing his head to whip towards the source in reaction, his trembling and uncoordinated hands fumbling with the gun in his waistband as he did so.

But when he squinted and realized it was just Dean Winchester, the man he had bonded and hunted with, he relaxed.

"Bet you're piss-pissed at 'im too, aren't ya?" Rick said drunkenly, smirking. "Sh-shot y're papa n'all."

"No, douchebag. I'm actually friggin' pissed at  _you_ ," Dean retorted, a sneer twisting his mouth as he stepped forward.

Rick's smirk faded, and he tilted his head. "Y-yeah? Wh-why me?" he asked, and then looked down at his brother, jerking his chin at him. "S'him you shou'd be pissed at." He raised a boot and kicked the boy's side, causing a shaky whimper to emit from him.

"Maybe you should get the hell away from him," Dean hissed, irritation blazing in his green orbs.

"Gettin' on m'nerves, Winchest'r. It aint any f'your bus-business, s'back 'ff," Rick said, glassy eyes glaring at him.

"Oh, it sure is, Ricky," Dean replied, smirking mirthlessly. "I'm a hunter. It's my job to keep people safe from monsters."

"Do I look like s'me kinda fr-freaky beast with claws and f'ngs t'you?"

"Monsters can be human," Dean answered simply.

"S'what you gonna do? Snuff me out?"

"I'd definitely love to," Dean retorted, the humorless smirk replacing into a cocky one. How he'd love to pull out his gun and aim it at the ruthless bastard's face. But he knew that his father taught him that saving people was more important than killing monsters, and he knew that was what he was going to do. "But I've got better things to do right now, so I guess I'll just have to leave you to the cops."

As if on cue, the sirens of cops rang out distantly, announcing their nearing arrival, and Rick's head snapped towards the direction the sounds were coming from. Dean knew Rick wouldn't be able to escape, what with him being too drunk out of his mind to be fast enough to run, let alone know where to go. And so, he wasn't worried in the least when he saw Rick's infuriated expression, glowering at him through narrowed oval eyes.

"When I get out, Winchester. I'm gonna take back my things from you," he snarled, not looking at Sam, but Dean knew he was talking about him, and he felt disgust rouse within him at the way he thought of his brother as some kind of object, as his property. "And then I'm gonna kill you."

"Well, until then,  _buddy_ ," Dean said, mock and sarcasm oozing out of his voice, and felt repulsed and incredulous at the fact that he ever considered this asshole a friend.

Dean turned away from him to face the kid, still lying curled up on his side. His bare back was splattered with lashes of bruises and dried blood, his thin body shaking as heart-wrenching sobs and whimpers tore out of him, stirring up a feeling of the same protectiveness he had felt that day he saw the wounds on his face.

The same one he felt for Adam.

He didn't bother to watch as the police barged through the door and rushed in, pointing a gun at Rick. He didn't bother to see the look on his face, cold and hard with fury and vengeance burning in his eyes, and didn't bother to look as they took him away.

All he could see was Sam (Adam).

Dean walked over to him, his feet stopping behind him, and he knelt down before the form, reaching out a hand and placing it down on his arm, right above the hand-bruises.

He felt the kid flinch violently at the touch, felt him press tighter into the ground to get away from it as he cried and shook his head frantically, whispering desperate apologies and pleading for Rick to not hurt him.

"It's alright, kid," Dean whispered softly, resting a hand on his hair soothingly (and feeling Adam's soft blonde locks between his fingers). "You're safe."

  


 


	7. Chapter 7

Bobby glanced at the shivering kid sitting on the bed once again, watching as he pulled Dean's jacket tighter around him and shifted awkwardly under the scrutiny of his gaze. His brown bangs shyly covered his lowered hazel eyes, just how Bobby remembered it since the day Richard Wesson left Sam at his doorstep while him and Rick went off on another hunt.

"Stop staring at him, Bobby. You're making him uncomfortable." Dean's voice piped up from behind him.

Bobby turned his head and glowered at him over his shoulder.

He looked back at Sam once more and held his gaze there for another moment before he released a sigh, turning on his heel to face Dean completely as he ran a hand over his bearded mouth.

"What are you gonna do?" Bobby asked him quietly.

Dean paused, his eyes shifting towards Sam. "I... I don't know. I mean, I thought... I thought we could just take him in or something. It's not like he has anywhere else to go since he doesn't have any other relatives."

_"Do you have anyone you can live with?"_

_"N-no."_

_"No one at all?"_

_A shake of head._

_"Come with me."_

_"I don't know you."_

_"But you know Bobby."_

"Well,  _you_  could take him in. Because he doesn't really trust us," Dean added, shrugging slightly.

"Speaking of 'us', you do know your daddy's gonna be real pissed about you poking into another hunter's business, right?" Bobby reminded, raising an eyebrow. He turned his head over to the man in question and eyed the sleeping hunter for a moment, before shifting his gaze back to Dean. "He did always tell ya to stay away from whatever happens behind their doors. He already has t'deal with monsters. Don't need hunters on his ass as well."

Dean clenched his jaw, feeling the burn of irritation flare in his chest. "What was I supposed to do? Turn a blind eye and let him get beaten up by that dickless bastard?"

"I didn't mean that, boy," Bobby denied, his own tone exasperated. "I'm just saying your papa won't agree with this. Rick can be one dangerous son of a bitch when he wants to be."

Dean glanced at the kid trying to hide into his arms and legs, his limbs curled into his chest as his bruised eyes peeked out slightly towards him and Bobby, no doubt listening in on their conversation but trying to remain stealthy. He hid his face into the sleeve of Dean's jacket as soon as he caught sight of his gaze on him.

"I can see that," Dean muttered softly.

Bobby exhaled lightly in agreement, following Dean's gaze on Sam.

He looked back at Dean, pursing his lips and nodding slightly, and then reached out a hand to pat the boy's shoulder.

"Well, I'd say you did the right thing."

Dean smiled in gratitude. "Thanks, Bobby."

...

"S'he gonna be angry at me?" Sam asked quietly, hesitantly, as if unsure if he was allowed to speak or not. He glanced at John on the other bed, swallowing slightly as he tried to estimate the amount of pain that would come at being beaten by the hunter from the muscle mass of his body. He was quite well-built, broad chest and wide shoulders with large, toned biceps (almost as strong as Rick, maybe a bit more), which was the complete contrast to his skinny, lanky form.

"No... well, at least not at you," Dean said as he wiped at the cut on his cheek, shrugging slightly. "He'd be pissed at me for not staying out of another hunter's matters."

Sam nodded, his eyes moving down at his hands. He liked Dean. Dean was nice to him like Rick never was. Although, for how long he'd be able to remain that way was the question. He knew it was too good to be true for anyone to like him, with how much he screwed up all the time and the heavy burden he was on everyone around him. It was why his entire family hated him, wasn't it? People didn't just hate their sons and brothers without a reason. He had to have done something to bring it all onto himself; something to deserve the way they had felt about him. Something to have been told by them every single day of his life that he was worthless. Nothing. To have been beaten until he was bruised and battered over for most of the fourteen years of his life.

It was all his fault. He was certain of that.

Sam knew part of it had a lot to do with what had happened with his mother. He was too stupid. He should have known better than to keep his mother's secret. If he had just told his father about the man, she'd still be alive. She'd still be here, with them.

But sometimes, he wondered if maybe it also had a lot to do with himself. He wondered if they also hated him because of the worthless failure, the useless burden that he was. The inconvenient nuisance that they were forced to carry around.

He wondered if his father and brother would have still felt the same even if their mom was alive.

"He just doesn't want any trouble. Better allies than enemies, right?" Dean's conversational voice broke him out of his abstraction, causing him to jerk slightly. Although, Dean seemed to have either ignored or remained oblivious to his startlement as he continued on, dabbing the alcohol wipe on his split lip with a gentleness that seemed odd and unfamiliar and, at the same time, strangely nice. "You know the hunters around here. Not all of them are exactly the moral kind. They can be pretty damn dangerous when they want to be. And most of them just don't like people interfering into their personal life. Whatever happens behind closed doors and all..."

He wondered if John was going to hurt Dean. That'd be all his fault too if he did, and maybe that would be when Dean would start hating Sam too. He didn't want anyone else to get hurt because of him. He had already done that enough, with his mother, his father, and now Rick, who was arrested all because of him.

"Alright," Dean said, grounding his attention back into the present once more. "Your back now."

**...**

His back iced and bandaged and covered by Dean's clothes (since his own were still stained with coffee), Sam sat quietly on the bed, unsure of what to do next.

"Aren't you gonna sleep?" Dean asked, and Sam sensed more than he saw him reclining back on the spread blanket on the ground, hearing the low groan and the dull thud, and he felt the burn of his expectant stare.

Sam slowly lifted his gaze slightly, letting it land on Dean for a second, before dropping it back down. Rick never liked it when he looked at him in the eye.

"Wh-where?" he mumbled the question, a mild hitch in his voice. He didn't want to make Dean angry by asking him too many questions.

But he wanted to be sure about where Dean wanted him to sleep. Whenever there were more hunters and less beds, Rick always made him sleep in the corner of the room. But right now, there weren't any corners available as the beds shoved into the first and second corners of the room, a desk shoved into the third corner, while Dean was taking the fourth corner.

"On the bed, of course," Dean answered, confusion creeping into his voice.

Sam froze, not expecting that response at all. His eyes raised up at Dean's face, a puzzled knit between his brows as if he couldn't comprehend why Sam would be asking such a question.

"I... I d-don't understand," Sam stuttered, his confused voice just a little above a feeble whisper. It was probably enough to carry across the room and reach Dean's ears, because he saw Dean's bewildered gaze turn towards him again.

And then there was some sort of realization dawning in his eyes.

"It's okay," Dean assured, looking at him from where he laid on the floor with a casual arm beneath his head. "You need the bed more than I do anyway. You know, with your, uh... injuries and all."

Sam wasn't sure how to react to such display of kindness. Other than Bobby, there haven't been many people who had shown such generosity to him. Especially not from strangers.

Strangers who were hard-hearted hunters.

Strangers who shouldn't care.

So he said nothing. He just lied down on the bed, closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

**...**

"What?"

Sam was startled awake by a sharp hiss coming from the front of his bed.

"Goddamnit, Dean. I thought I taught you better than that," he heard John's voice whisper harshly.

"You taught me to save people," Dean replied simply. "That's what I did."

Sam swallowed, peering out at the two men quietly from the bed.

"Goddamnit, Dean. These things should be left to the cops, not to the hunters!"

"And that's exactly what I did!" Dean almost yelled, a note of frustration and exasperation creeping into his voice.

"No, Dean. You didn't," John disagreed. "You intervened with another hunter's personal business, which I taught you  _never_  to do. Now when Rick gets out of that prison? Trust me, son. You're gonna have a lot of problems to deal with."

"You can't seriously have expected me to leave a... a freaking kid in the 'care' of that abusive bastard!" Dean exclaimed angrily. "I heard the crap he yelled at him. I heard him belt the shit out of the kid. And you're telling me that I should have just ignored it and let him go through that until... until it all went too far some day?"

John exhaled heavily, turning away and dragging a hand down his mouth. He let a few beats of silence pass before he faced him again. "What will you do when you find another kid like him, huh, Dean? You gonna take them in too? You can't help - "

"Alright, that's enough, you two," Bobby intervened, uncrossing his arms and stepping forward until he was standing right between them. "John, I understand why you don't approve of Dean's decision. I know sending Rick to jail's gonna bring him back pissed as hell, and it's also gonna spread words which ain't gonna help your low profile plans. But what Dean did was the right thing. That boy was probably gettin' abused on a daily basis, and leaving him like that wouldn't have been the most moral thing to do. You taught yer son better than bailin' on a kid."

They broke off the argument for the time being.

"We'll talk about this later," John said after wiping a hand down his face once again.

Dean glowered at him. "I'll go get breakfast," he said lowly, almost a growl, and then turned away and walked towards the door.

The door slammed shut, the hard bang and click sounding louder in the silent room. Sam flinched involuntarily at it, and then immediately felt the shame burn in his stomach, swallowing slightly. Rick wouldn't have liked such display of weakness. He always hated it.

It was almost completely silent for the next twenty minutes, save for the occasional slight scratch of pen against paper as he watched John write on the pages of a leather-bound book. Sam concluded that it was some kind of journal by the looks of it, although he couldn't be sure.

He had also been trying to gather up courage to voice the question on his mind, but fear had been keeping the words stuck in his throat. Some part of him didn't want to ask, to just let it go and never think of it again, but he knew it could have consequences if he didn't say anything. If he didn't speak up and take responsibility, Dean might get hurt. And he didn't deserve the punishment for something that was Sam's fault.

Sam closed his eyes.

He had expected to just blurt it out, quick and rushed.

But instead, it came out soft. Quiet.

Scared.

"Are you going to hurt him?"

John's hand stilled.

"I-it wasn't his fault. He was... he was only trying to help me. S-so if you're gonna... if you're gonna p-punish someone..." he trailed off, trying to control his breaths as his mouth went dry. He swallowed hard, looking down at his hands. His heart raced with apprehension, his blood pounding in his ears, but none of them were an unfamiliar sensation. It was something he was used to more than anything. "I-I'm sorry. S'my fault, I'm sorry."

"Look, whatever kind of person you think I am, I'm not - "

"Don't mind him, son," Bobby chimed in, the newspaper he was reading on his lap as he looked at the kid. "I know he looks scary, but he's just an ol' teddy bear once ya get t'know him."

Bobby chuckled slightly and Sam felt his lips twitch at that, curling into a small smile at his words.

It dropped off as soon as he caught John's glare, even though it was directed at Bobby and not him.

The gruff hunter just smirked at him in response.

**...**

"Breakfast!" Dean announced cheerfully, barging in through the door with a little more bounce in his step than when he left. He almost seemed as if he had already forgotten the earlier events this morning.

"Thank God. I'm starving," John muttered, pushing away from the desk and moving to the small table in front of the TV set. Bobby followed as Dean placed the aromatic plastic bags of food on said small table.

"I call dibs on the couch!" Dean exclaimed, plopping down on the two-seater and spreading his legs all over it just to annoy the crap out of his elders. He grinned, staring up at Bobby who was coming to sit on the other seat. John seemed to be the only one okay with settling on the ground.

Bobby rolled his eyes and threw his legs off, taking the now vacant spot himself.

It was after they were all set that Dean's eyes flickered towards an empty space beside John, all traces of lightness and amusement chased away. His gaze grew sad with pain and longing as he was reminded, not for the first time, about who should have been here among them as well.

He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath, swallowing as the flashes of memory passed by his mind. He remembered Adam, ten years old and sitting beside John on the ground, shaking his head at him as Dean took over both of the couch cushions, as if he was the only mature one in the room other than his father.

_"You're an idiot, you know that?" Adam said. But despite his words, there was a soft and fond smile on his lips, as if there wasn't anyone else he'd rather have for a brother, no matter ridiculous and obnoxious he was._

Dean smiled and opened his eyes.

It was then he realized that Sam hadn't arrived at the table.

And when he turned his head back, he saw him staring after them silently, a sense of yearning in his eyes to join them, but the fear and hesitance overlaying it held him back from doing just that. When he caught Dean's eyes, he quickly averted his gaze, looking ashamed and scared.

"What are you waiting for?" Dean said, smiling at him. "There's a juicy chicken burger and fries with your name on it. Well, I didn't know what you wanted, and you were sleeping and I didn't want to wake you up, so I just brought you what I thought you' d like."

Sam's gaze slowly rose to him.

"Come on," Dean urged, jerking his head towards the food.

Sam swallowed, ducking his head. But he still slid off the bed, his feet softly touching the ground for a moment. He took a deep breath and let them press a little firmer to the floor.

He stood up and slowly made his way over to them, fidgeting with his sleeve.

"Where do I sit?" Sam asked quietly.

John moved slightly sideways, and Sam seemed to have gotten the hint as he walked over and sat down beside him.

They began eating their burgers.

And when Dean looked up, half-way through his meal, at Sam as he munched on his own.

He found that it wasn't as painful to look at that place anymore.

  


 


	8. Chapter 8

Bobby had found them a job, which he explained over breakfast. Total four victims, one most recent, with pictures on the newspaper article from 1987 to the current year, showing their bloodied corpses discovered hanging from the exact same tree (and eerily, with the exact same wounds) two miles west of a borough named Bridgeville, located in Pennsylvania. John suggested that it could just as well be a crazy, psychopathic serial killer on the run with a knack for that tree. Dean answered that it could just as well be  _not_  with a shit-eating grin in response to his father's annoyed glare. It made Sam smile a little at their familial antics, ducking his head shyly to hide it, like it was supposed to be some kind of a secret. He wished he could just smile easily and openly, wished he could have a family like theirs, but he knew better to believe something like this could ever belong to him. He wouldn't deserve it. And that thought was enough to make the smile fade away from his lips.

"Alright, so I guess we're heading to Bridgeville in a few minutes," John announced, crumpling the wrapper of his finished burger in his hands. "Pack your crap, everyone. Make sure you don't leave anything behind," he ordered as he stood up, groaning as his knees creaked.

"Yes sir," Dean answered in a respectful, firm tone, shifting from a sportive, playful son to a stoic soldier. Sam found the sudden change a little unsettling as well as fascinating.

Bobby grunted in response and stood up with his hands on his knees. Sam followed, quietly rising to his feet with the support of the table. He ignored the stings and stabs of pain that shoot through his entire body at the movement, tried not to scrunch his face up or cry out by biting his lip. God, his flesh ached with bruises and cuts, and it wasn't even disturbing anymore that he couldn't remember his life without it. He got used to it such a long time ago, perhaps too soon, and it became something familiar and something to expect every day and even something normal to him. Some days, it was almost unimaginable to be painless.

Sam moved over to his coffee-soaked bag, took a hold of it and carried it over to the bed he slept in last night. He sat until everyone was done and ready to go, and he walked out of there with all those different people, suddenly realizing that things were changing, but not yet trusting enough to believe for the better.

**...**

Sam had sat in a car before with wounds on his back and thighs, had felt them all burn with each bounce of the tires from the bumps on the road. The pain never truly grew smaller and easier to bear, even after years and years. But he became better at hiding how much it hurt, became better at pushing down the sounds rising inside him and the tugs on his features in reaction to the agony and the urge to escape and risk seeming abnormal.

He was prepared for another day of the same torture, rigid, aching body trying to relax into the solid seats. Rick always got pissed at him for being a drama queen when he tried to move forward and away from pressing his blue-and-purple back into the seat, so it was almost a second-nature now to try to keep the pain of his injuries a secret, because he knew that he could only expect belittling and annoyance for his display.

But Dean looked at him from the passenger seat, and Sam couldn't mold his body into the seat properly this time without nearly breaking into tears and his heart skipped because Dean saw him being weak, and he was nice to him and he didn't want that to end just because he couldn't toughen up and deal with it. He tried to school his facial muscles back into stoicism and strength, but his eyes were already burning wet and there was a stone in his throat that he couldn't swallow hard enough to push away.

Then Dean left the car, disappeared around it (Sam didn't look back) and came back after a moment, standing outside as he knocked on his window, and Sam had no idea what was going to happen, tried not to think about it and obsess over the fear that he made him mad as he tentatively unlocked the door, his hands shaking a little. But all Dean did was pull the door open and give him stolen motel pillows full of soft feathers, grinning as he explained that it wasn't everyday they got such heavenly stuff so he snatched a few on the way, plus they come in handy when their injuries from hunts make it hard for them to get comfy in the car.

Dean slid the pillows behind him, smiled this tiny smile that was soft and slightly sad and maybe even a little fond as he ruffled his hair. Sam leaned back and felt the pain on his back ease, and something in his heart too.

**...**

The drive to Bridgeville, Pennsylvania took almost six hours. Dean had looked in the rearview mirror two hours ago to see Sam asleep, and figured must be still tired. He smiled at Sam's drooling chin and hanging jaw, and the peace in his closed eyes and cheeks, hoping the kid was having dreams sweeter than reality. God knows he deserved it.

The sudden change had to be unsettling on top of everything from his past, but he was in better hands than he was before, and Dean didn't regret doing what he did. It did make him wonder if it caused Sam to harbor any resentment towards him for getting Rick arrested, but it was far better than leaving him with that monster.

His father pulled the Impala into the empty parking lot of a motel, Bobby's truck driving into a spot beside them as well. Dean watched John leave the car, groaning at the pull unfolding himself out probably had on his bullet wound, and walk towards the reception office, Bobby falling into step along with him. He glanced back at Sam in the backseat, deciding to let him rest for a few more minutes until they get a room.

When they reached their building, Dean was slightly dreadful of the state of the room, as he could see his dad was. He wondered if Sam felt the same too every time he had to move to a new motel, although Dean assumed that he was the kind of person who took what he could get and never complained. He was probably never given a choice to complain, so he learned never to.

"Sam?" Dean called out softly, reaching out a hand to touch his narrow shoulder. God, the kid was scarily thin. "Sam?"

Sam stirred, brows tightening with effort to wake up. His eyes blinked open against the evening light streaming in from the windshield, onto his face, and Dean patiently stared at him and waited.

"Bri'gev'lle?" Sam slurred, voice thick with sleep and still struggling to focus on reality as he rubbed his slit eyes.

Dean chuckled and nodded. "Yep. Bridgeville."

Sam nodded and sobered after a few more seconds, and then he sort of just stared at the top of the car, like his hope was as blank as it. Dean said nothing about it, knowing they were still strangers enough to not ask, so he just patted his shoulder and slid out of the car.

Sam was soon right behind him, bag slung over his shoulder as they walked towards the motel building, John and Bobby alongside them.

"So it's us grown-ups and you kids," Bobby said, handing the keys to Dean for a room.

"I'm twenty-one," Dean replied, slightly affronted. "Why don't you and Sam share a room instead? He's known you for longer." He glanced at Sam for some semblance of agreement, but only caught him staring down at his feet silently.

"Yeah," Bobby said, strangely awkward all of a sudden as he shifted on his feet. "But, uh, ya know? Thought he could use somebody closer ta' his age, find a friend in ya and all. What do ya think, Sam?"

Dean glanced at him expectantly for an answer. Sam stayed silent and still, though, looking like he wanted nothing more than to hide behind his hair and shoulders and his fiddling hands were fascinating him to no end. Dean felt guilty for having him put on the spot like that.

Sam swallowed, bobbing his head slightly.

"Alright then," Bobby said, smiling. "Let's go see our rooms."

**...**

"Sorry about, uh, putting you on the spot like that," Dean said as he went through his bag for a set of clothes. "I mean, that was kinda Bobby's fault. But I feel like I had a part in it or something." He turned around once he found boxers and a pair of a casual T-shirts and sweats for his pajama. "It's not too late, you know? If you want to be with Bobby, you can let me know and I'll-"

Dean cut off, realizing that Sam was actually on the verge of tears, jaw set in restraint and watery gaze fixated on his hands atop his lap. "...talk to him."

He dropped his clothes on his bed and stepped forward towards him, standing awkwardly over him for a few seconds before he lowered down and perched uncertainly on the edge of his bed, suddenly finding himself unable to look at Sam's face. "Uh..." He paused, swallowing, and then sighed. "Look, you... you don't have to be afraid of me. I mean, I'm not... I won't hurt you. But yeah, I, uh... I'll talk to Bobby about letting you in with him."

Sam chuckled sadly and shook his head, sniffing a little. "Don't bother," he said quietly. "He won't say yes."

Dean's brow furrowed, confused, and he turned his head to face him.

Sam bit his lip, his face twisting as he exhaled. "He doesn't like me. He was the only one who's ever liked me."

Dean shook his head at him, his mind feeling blocked and senseless. "Why would you think that?"

Sam swiped a hand at his nose, then returned it back under his gaze. "The way he was talking about me. Like... like he just didn't want me with him."

"Sam, I can safely say that that's bullshit," Dean declared. "Before we met, he was telling us about you. And it was pretty obvious that he thought you were a good kid."

"That was before he found out how pathetic and weak I was," Sam whispered, his voice breaking.

It took quarter of a moment for Dean to understand. "You're not weak or pathetic," Dean told him. "There wasn't much you could have done to stop him from hurting you."

Sam stayed silent, and there's a look on his bowed face, that Dean could see even from an angle that showed so little, with something close to regret, like he thought he had said too much of things he shouldn't have had. "Never mind," he mumbled. "M'sorry."

"It's okay," Dean answered.

"It won't happen again. I should stop being so whiny," he kept on talking, and Dean could hear a story in the fear of his trembling voice.

"It's okay," Dean repeated softly, his slightly pinched gaze set on him.

Sam's mouth clamped shut. Dean stayed there, waiting for him to say something else. But after a while, he understood that this was the end of their conversation, so he reached out a hand to pat his shoulder before his exit, only to have Sam flinching back into the headboard even more.

Dean sighed, feeling a clench of sorrow for the kid with sad eyes and shy, guarded smiles on split lips and bruises on his face. He slowly withdrew his hand away and stood up on his feet, leaning over to pick his clothes up from his bed.

He remained there for a few seconds, just wondering what to say that could make something better in the kid's world, even though he'd never know if it worked or not. He turned his head a little towards him, his gaze bowed towards his own shoulder, opening his mouth, still not knowing what the words should be.

"It'll all be better when you wake up tomorrow," was what came out.

It left him shocked and it left him aching.

_"Everything's gonna be better when you wake up tomorrow, little brother," Dean whispered, stroking Adam's blonde hair._

**...**

"So, I thought you were a little more fond of the kid than that," John said, as casually as he could, as he sat back against the headboard, flipping through channel after channel and feeling the heavy dullness of disinterest and boredom for each of it.

"What are ya talkin' 'bout, Johnny?" Bobby asked, rolling his eyes from his own bed, where he was trying to sleep.

"You got all weird when Dean told you to share a room with Sam," John answered, keeping his eyes on the TV. "You don't like him or something?"

Silence fell over the room. John tried to act as insouciant as possible, but his ears and his curiosity were perked about the whole thing, and the wait had his listening on edge. He continued running through the shows on the screen, not quite looking, his attention stuck on what the old man on the bed next to his would say.

"Nah," Bobby said softly. "I don't got no problem with that boy. If anything, it's quite the opposite." There was a rustle of shifting, clothes against solid mattress. "Ya know, he has only been dropped off at my house at a total of four times in all his years, but he grew on me at the very first. He's a good kid."

"So why didn't you want him with you?" John pressed, forgetting all his pretenses and staring outright at Bobby expectantly, who was lying on his back now instead of his side.

"S'not that I didn't want him around, alright? So quit talking like that," Bobby snapped, glaring at him.

John raised an eyebrow, raising a hand in surrender, hating the limitation of his other injured shoulder. "Alright, so maybe I got that wrong. But why did you seem so bent on sending him off with Dean?"

There was a moment of contemplative silence, before he spoke. "After what they've both been through, ya know? Dean losin' his brother and Sam not really havin' a brother at all," Bobby paused, sighed. "I just thought... that maybe each other was what they needed best right now. I wasn't entirely makin' a half-assed excuse when I said I wanted im' to find a friend in Dean. Maybe even a brother. And I wanted Dean to do the same with him."

John couldn't explain the burning ache inside of him at the answer, the pain of those words twisted into the anger raging in his sternum.

"Now we done playing twenty-questions, Johnny?" Bobby snarked, looking at him.

"Yeah, whatever."

  


 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions/references to abuse.

 

The next morning, Dean woke up to find the opposite bed empty.

It nearly sent him into a spiral of panic as his veins spasmed with cold fear and his heart jolted violently in his chest, his mind flooding with unhelpful explanatory thoughts for his absence. Sam ran away. Something had taken Sam. Rick had escaped out of jail and taken-

The door clicked, and there entered the reason for his panic with breakfast and coffee in his hands.

"What the hell, Sam?!" Dean exclaimed, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware that he was reacting too much for a kid he had only known for days, and he was unsure of why he was so worried, which was translated into anger and irritation, about him. Maybe it was the fact that Bobby wouldn't be too happy if he lost the kid in only a night considering he was under his responsibility for now. Not to mention, the kid was still beaten to hell and shouldn't be unnecessarily moving around so much.

Although, Dean should have realized that yelling wasn't the wisest action towards someone who had just been out of an abusive relationship, and he hated himself as the volume and tone of his voice caused Sam to jerk violently and drop the steaming beverage he was holding all over himself, coffee-stains soaking through his shirt and burning the wounds on his skin.

"Shit," Dean whispered, wide-eyed as he watched the kid gasp and fall to the floor on his knees, catching a brief glint of tears in his pained eyes.

Dean untangled himself out of the blankets still around him and stumbled over to Sam, who was hunched over and clutching at his bruised, stained torso, dropping next to him and grabbing his shoulder. Sam flinched away with a sob until he was on his elbow, the other arm still around him protectively.

"M'sorry. M's-so sorry 'bout the coff-coffee... I-I'll get you another one an-and I'll clean this up, I just..." He swallowed, face twisted in fear and tears, as he looked around for something to wipe away the mess with.

"No," Dean said, grabbing a nearby towel hung on the chair, where he threw it last night after his shower. "It's okay. I'll do it. "

He scrubbed out whatever he could from Sam's shirt, and then told him to go change. But when he looked up at his face, it was bowed down, ashamed and afraid and unsure. Dean felt the urge to fix it all for him, right this instant, but he didn't know how. How could he fix an entire lifetime of wounds?

He reached up his hand slowly, carefully, so that Sam could see what was coming. The boy caught sight of it and his gaze followed, his eyes trembling with fear. Dean placed it against his cheek gently, and Sam still jerked back like he had been slapped unexpectedly with a hitch in his breath, eyes fluttering as if they were imitating his heart. It made him feel like he did something wrong, guilt blooming in his gut, but he carried on through it, hoped that maybe with time and some getting used to, Sam would realize there was nothing to be afraid of with him.

"It's not your fault. It was just an accident," Dean told him, lightly patted his cheek. Sam flinched each time again, and it made Dean think of how a hand against his cheek for him must have always meant something else, and how long they might have to go before Sam felt certain and safe with them. "So don't worry about it. Just go change your clothes. Come on, I'll help you up."

Dean left the towel on the carpet on top of the large brown stain and stood up, grabbed Sam by his biceps and pulled while Sam worked on getting his legs up and firm on the ground. Sam clenched his eyes shut in pain as they hauled up to his feet, finally standing upright.

Dean still held on as he guided him to the nearest bed, and put his hand on his shoulder, leaning in to talk to him softly. "Sit here. I'll get you some clothes. Then after that, you rest, good?"

Sam nodded. Dean turned around, went to the duffel bag beside his own sitting on the desk, flower vase and lamps on either side of the television. He reached for the zipper, pulled it open, and the first thing that caught his eye was the large brown stain on top of all his clothes.

"The hell?" Dean breathed out, confused. He grabbed ahold of one of the shirts, looking at it closely. Some part of him was afraid to find out it was blood.

"S'coffee," Sam's quiet voice piped up, and Dean's muscles drained from the tension.

"What's it all doing here?" Dean asked, glancing back at him.

"Rick got pissed, 'cause I got his coffee wrong," Sam answered shortly, still timid and hushed, still afraid to look higher than the bottom of a wall.

"That's a stupid thing to get mad at," Dean commented. "You made a mistake. Hell, it wasn't even you, was it? It was the barista there or whatever."

"Doesn't matter," Sam said softly, his fingers wrung together as he shrugged.

Dean didn't say anything, didn't know what to say. Bastard practically screwed up all of his belongings, but Sam knew that, and yet he didn't think it mattered. Then again, this was probably just the tip of the iceberg, possibly even a relief that he didn't have to suffer through anything more.

Dean didn't reply to the quiet, careless response. Instead, he opted to make a joke, hoping it would get him a small smile. "Your clothes have terrible luck when it comes to coffee though, don't it?" he murmured, just loud enough for Sam to hear him.

Sam did smile, as Dean hoped he would. It was still held-back, but freer somehow. He didn't hide his face towards the ground, even though his eyes were down, and he didn't seem to try to wipe it off quickly.

**...**

They all met up at the closest library after breakfast in order to gather more information on the hunt, find out the identity and history of the spirit before they barged into it. Sam and Bobby took the records whereas Dean and John made use of the computers, searching for past articles that resembled the situation or the spirit that they were dealing with. There weren't witnesses, as it was ruled out that each death happened somewhere in the dead of night, with no one around to see what had happened.

But Dean and John had gone to gather reports from the police station, which indicated a striking similarity in appearance between each victim; male, blonde, thirties. Often in such cases, the spirit had beef with anyone who resembled their murderer and, in vengeance, killed the victims in the same manner as they were killed. Also, the deaths stretched all the way back from 1987, one victim every few years with no specific pattern in each gap, probably whenever the spirit could find someone who matched its critique, but always on the exact same date. Typical easy case scenario: that was the date the spirit became a spirit. Sam really hoped this was a typical easy case, and that there would be no surprises or twists to jackbox out at them out of nowhere.

"Think I found something," Dean's voice piped up.

Everyone gathered together around the computer. John only had to slide his chair over, whereas Bobby and Sam had to bridge the eight feet distance in-between in order to reach them. Sam was slower, but at least it kept him from twisting his face in pain.

"Jacob Butler, 26," Dean started. "Died on March 23rd, 1987. At first, it was suspected to be a suicide. But that didn't explain the finger bruises on his arms and biceps and all the other wounds found on his body. Later, the police found out from Jacob's wife that he had a history of severe physical and emotional abuse from his brother, Lincoln Butler. Single father wasn't around much, so nobody to stop him. His brother had been charged for many other grave crimes before, such as murder and assault. Wife confessed he was actually a psychopath who stalked his brother around for years, terrorized his friends and whole load of other messed up crap. Police investigated the house for any clues as to what had happened and found a ring fallen on the floor, and the wife said she remembered seeing it on Lincoln once, which must have fallen from his finger during the struggle Jacob put up when Lincoln snuck in in the middle of the night and took him, drove him over to the same location he's killing his victims, beat him and tortured him, then hung him on a tree."

John exhaled. "That's pretty damn dark."

Dean and Bobby nodded in agreement, staring at the picture of Lincoln Butler; male, blonde, thirties.

But all Sam could think about was a brother who hated him.

**...**

"Does this hunt remind you of him?" Dean asked quietly as they sit in the motel room alone. John and Bobby had gone out to question the wife whom they discovered was still alive at the age at the age of forty-four to find out where her husband was buried as the article didn't mention any cemeteries.

Sam stiffened, barely glanced up at Dean. He forced himself to relax then. "No," he replied, just as quietly, already knowing who 'him' was. "He... he wasn't that cruel."

"Doesn't mean you trusted him with your life," Dean countered, staring at him. But then he blinked, as if he just realized what he was saying. "Sorry. That was... that was out of line. It's not my business."

But Sam wanted to break. He wanted to break because he wasn't wrong. He knew the terror of the finality in the agony, what it felt like to watch someone you were supposed to trust come at you with a knife, grab you by the leg when you tried to escape and bring it down at you, and it was different from the fear of risking your life in order to kill a monster and save people. It was worse. There were so many days when he thought it would go too far, that it had, just seconds before he closed his eyes because they were too heavy and his bones were even heavier with bruises and sadness, only to wake up again the next morning on the floor, cheek and hair stuck in his own blood. He feared it on days where he could muster enough hope, welcomed it on the days he couldn't.

"He stabbed me in the side once," Sam whispered without really thinking, eyes burning. "I thought he was going to put it in my chest."

He didn't hear anything from Dean for a while after that, and he stared down at his hands through a smeared vision and suddenly wished that he had kept his mouth shut because Dean probably didn't want to hear his whiny sob stories. It wasn't like they were friends. Sam could never have friends, could never deserve them.

He wished he did, though. So badly. He wished he didn't have to live with himself, with everything that was wrong with him. Wished he was someone else. Someone better.

He startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up long enough to see it was Dean before his gaze fell back to where it was before.

"You can talk to me," Dean said, which actually surprised Sam a bit, because Dean didn't seem to be the one to be comfortable with expressing emotions. "I can't promise I'm good at this whole, uh, whole comforting, emotional stuff. But I know that going through what you did, you're... you're gonna need a friend."

A friend.

Sam wanted to laugh, a nearly manic urge bubbling up in his stomach. A friend. It'd be nice to have a friend, even if he didn't deserve it.

**...**

"You're gonna sit this one out," Dean's voice piped up from behind him, where he was sitting on his own bed. Sam stopped what he was doing, which happened to be packing his own guns. Dean didn't want him to go?

"You don't need any more bruises on you," Dean said, firm, but gentle. "You need to get some rest and recover. It's an easy, two-man hunt so you don't have to worry about anyone needing any back-up, and my dad and Bobby are more than capable of putting this spirit down on their own."

It wasn't harsh, with the way he said it. It didn't make Sam feel useless, unimportant. It just made him feel like there was someone who wanted him alive, wanted him to be alright. It confused him for a few seconds, because he couldn't give a name to the feeling. He couldn't remember anyone making him feel like this, couldn't understand why anyone would want to.

Sam stared at him, right at him (noticed green eyes and freckles and a rough kindness in his features), maybe for the first time since that night he pulled him out of that motel room and away from Rick. He shook his head slightly, brows pinched. "I-I don't understand."

Dean only smiled, shrugged. "Sit this one out. Watch crappy movies and shit. It'll probably get a bit boring, but you'll thank me later. I'll stay with you, keep watch over you if you need it. Or I could tell Bobby to do that. Promise he wouldn't mind. I…I don't know, whatever you decide."

"Dean, I..." Sam trailed off, realized it was the first time he called him by his name. If Dean did too, he didn't react much to it. "I-it's okay. I don't... I can do this. I'm used to doing it like this, r-really, so it's not that much of a p-problem anymore." He tried to smile reassuringly at him. He didn't want to sit back and let them do all the work. It'd be selfish, lazy. His dad had always told him he was selfish and lazy.

But he was so, so achingly tired, wanted to do nothing but sleep (but he shouldn't just do what he wanted, should he?). He didn't want to get anyone hurt by going in there like this, but he also didn't want to be selfish and lazy, and he didn't know what to do.

"Then that's all the more reason why you shouldn't," Dean told him, smiled sadly. "You shouldn't have to be used to this."

Sam stayed silent, fidgeting uncertainly. Some odd, irrational, distrustful part of him wondered if this was some kind of a test to his character. He wondered if Dean would yell, "I knew you were useless!" if he gave into his fatigue and said okay (he must be extremely exhausted if he didn't feel completely ridiculous for just thinking that).

Sam swallowed. "I... I don't want to be selfish or... or lazy and useless. I don't... I don't want anyone to think that. I mean, your father... h-he already doesn't like me much, and I accidentally shot him in the shoulder on our first hunt together and-and now I'm skipping out and I-I just feel like a burden on you and-" He knew he was starting to panic, rambling on and on frantically, and he was growing breathless. This was the most he had ever talked around anyone, other than Bobby. He had always felt alright talking to Bobby. But Bobby didn't like him much anymore either. "I-I mean I probably must - "

He jerked back when Dean reached for him. Dean stilled for a few seconds after, and Sam felt guilty for making him react like that, but it didn't stop Dean. It only slowed him, made him cautiously reach out once again and hold him by the shoulders. He held his gaze firmly for the brief time Sam could do the same to him before he broke the contact, instead shifting his attention to tugging at his sleeves unsurely.

"No one is going to think any of that, first of all," Dean assured him carefully, convictedly. "Second of all, my dad doesn't dislike you. He's just not used to you yet, and he's got some issues that don't really have much to do with you, and he doesn't know what an awesome kid you really are." Dean grinned, ruffling his hair. Sam felt like a stranger to the feelings inside of him, the warmth of whatever it was. It was new, and it was almost awkward to him, but it was nice so he held a smile back. "I've only known you for a few days, but I can already see that. And third of all, you're not a burden on me. It's cool having someone kinda close to my age around. I mean, yeah, four years isn't that close, but it's closer than the century-difference between my Dad and me and Bobby and me. Wait, don't tell them I said that..."

Sometimes Dean made him wish he could remember how to laugh, without the strain in his stomach to hold it back. He wished he could be open and free, and he hoped someday Dean could teach him how to be that. But for now, he ducked his head and grinned under the fringe of his hair.

"Now go get some sleep. You need it," Dean said softly, patting his cheek lightly, avoiding the bruises. "You're safe here, alright? I promise."

Naive as it probably was, Sam couldn't bring himself to doubt that for a second.

  


 


	10. Chapter 10

"We're staying back," Dean said, leaning against his car as he watched Bobby pack his things into the backseat of the truck. "Sam's still hurt, and he doesn't need to get hurt even more."

"I was thinking the same thing," Bobby replied.

"What thing?" John asked, appearing beside Bobby. He looked at Dean, looked around him subtly. "Did you put all your stuff in? Where's the kid?"

"Kid has a name, Dad," Dean told him, rolling his eyes. "Sam's resting. I'm staying with him."

Dean furrowed his brows as something unreadable flashed across his father's face, but before he could completely gauge it, he was blocked by the truck when John bent down to put his bags in with Bobby's, knowing that the Impala wasn't coming with them. "So you'd rather babysit some kid than save someone's life?"

Dean couldn't see his expression when he said it, but there was something akin to mockery there, maybe even anger, casual as it was. He felt irritation grate his chest, and even though he knew he shouldn't fuel whatever emotion was behind his father's words, he couldn't hold his own emotions back. "His name is Sam. And what the hell, Dad? Do you even know what he went through? Are you seriously expecting a thoroughly injured and traumatized kid to be on his own and take care of himself?"

John remained hidden behind the blue Ford, hands wrapped up on its top, as if he had paused to think, whether it was in consideration of how completely insensitive he sounded or in thought of an answer, Dean wasn't sure. After a while, he straightened, slamming the door shut. "Of course not," he responded quietly, didn't seem to be able to look him in the eye for some reason. "Take care of yourself. And Sam too."

Dean stared at him, slightly baffled at the sudden change. "Yeah. Yeah, alright."

He turned to look at Bobby, and he was staring at John too. Maybe he was wondering about him too. Maybe he was catching on to something Dean couldn't. He'd probably have to ask later.

"Take care of yourselves," he told them both, in their own hunter-fashioned, non-sentimental  _come back safely_. "It's not fun cleaning blood off the sheets and carpets while you two are sleeping on painkillers."

"What a helpful soul ya are," Bobby said, rolling his eyes.

A few minutes later, he was watching the blue car fade off into the distance, still wondering about his father. Wondering if it had anything to do with the son he had lost and the ghost of him that haunted them in this boy's eyes.

**…**

"Breakfast!" Dean announced loudly, dropping the bag of burgers from a nearby diner on the rickety table. One nagging part of him worried that it would snap under the weight and all the food would be ruined, but he didn't consciously ponder much on it as he looked at Sam expectantly. Sam shifted his gaze from the TV screen, an old Western movie playing on it that Dean was almost sure he had watched before but couldn't remember the name of, and then he glanced at him for a second before he quickly pressed the close button on the remote, about to climb off the bed to join him.

"You know what? Stay there. I'll bring it over," Dean said before he could move any more, picking up the bags from the table, that ignored, nagging part of him floating away in relief as he did so. "What's a little vacation time without breakfast in bed, huh? Wait, that sounds like we're on a honeymoon." He scrunched his nose up. Sam huffed out another smile, an incomplete laugh.

"Yeah, I wish my dad thought I was hilarious too," Dean said, mock-wistfully staring off into the distance. He shook his head. "He just doesn't appreciate me enough."

"I never said you were hilarious," Sam said, voice shyly low but mirthful, smiling down at his burger as he unwrapped it.

"No, but you almost laughed," Dean countered.

"Almost," Sam keyworded, shrugging one shoulder lightly.

"Still counts," Dean retorted, grinning at the short banter. They fell back into a silence after, peaceful and comfortable as they sat on a bed across from each other and ate, and Dean finally felt like something good was happening.

**...**

Dean spent the next few hours throwing all of Sam's clothes (there weren't a lot of them, and they were all quite threadbare) into a washing machine at the local laundromat, and then buying a few more pairs for him. He had asked Sam what his favorite colors were, and he told him it was blue and red and black, and so there was a shirt for each of those colors, and jeans to go along with that. He also bought him a new duffel where he could put all his new things, and other basic necessities, and shoes. Kid's shoes were too worn and dirty; the threads of its soles poking out, smudged with grime.

He returned to the motel with newly-cleaned clothes and two shopping bags. Sam looked at him, confused, when he walked through the door with all of it. He grinned at him, and handed Sam his duffel bag full of his old clothes, and then plopped the bag of new ones on his bed.

"What's all this?" Sam asked, looking at the bags.

"See for yourself," Dean told him.

"It's for me?"

"Yup."

Sam glanced at Dean uncertainly, and then back again at the bags, staring at them as if he didn't know what to do with them.

And then he reached for it and slid it towards himself. He peeked in, brow furrowed, before putting his hand in. The first thing he pulled out was a red plaid, and he smiled. Dean had a feeling he liked plaids. The next thing he grabbed was a dark blue crew neck. Then lastly for the shirts, a black v-neck. The rest were all jeans and a pair of shoes and new toiletries.

"Thank you," Sam said quietly, sincere and soft with a smile (like Adam used to every morning he made him breakfast and packed his lunch and comforted him after the bullies made him cry and held him after nightmares).

Dean's smile was brittle. "Don't mention it."

**...**

They fit themselves as comfortably as possible on a small couch and surfed through channels, looking for something worthwhile to watch. Dean's finger ached from constantly pressing up and down on the next button of the remote, and he suppressed a groan from the boredom and frustration grating in his chest.

"TV's crap in the evening," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "I just want a good movie to watch. Is that too much to ask?"

Eventually, Dean landed on a movie that he knew and enjoyed, some horror movie that he wasn't really scared of. He had seen worse things to be afraid of it, and had already watched it a few times to be aware of the surprise elements.

"Hey, It!"

Dean glanced at Sam, his face alight with excitement. It had long since worn out the adrenaline for him, but there was nothing else good on there so he did get a bit enthusiastic about it. He had expected to see the same kind of interest that he himself had on Sam, but Sam only stared at the screen with an expression that indicated otherwise. Not boredom, but… fear? Sam was looking at him, eyes wide, not excited at all.

"Evil clowns, Sam!" Dean exclaimed, grinning, arms comically out.

Sam gulped, looking down at his trembling hands.

"What?" Dean asked, suddenly worried. Did the movie remind him of something bad? "You… you don't like this movie?"

Sam shook his head.

"Is that a no, that's not it, or a no, I don't like this movie?" Dean asked, eyebrow raised in question.

"I-I don't..." Sam trailed off, breathed deeply, and swallowed again. "I just… I don't like..."

Sam didn't finish, didn't seem to want to. Whatever it was, he didn't want to admit it out, either out of embarrassment or shame or fear, Dean didn't know. Sam lifted his head, watched the screen, and he seemed to tense up at whatever was going on in the screen, shoulders tight and pulled back in alarm and defensiveness, jaw clenched and eyes large in terror. Dean's gaze followed to where his were, where there was a scene playing of Pennywise the Dancing Clown talking to a child from under the sewer drain, showing him a boat.

Sam swallowed.

"C... Clowns?" Dean asked uncertainly.

Sam looked at him, eyes wide, which was answer enough.

Dean stared at him for a few seconds, just taking that realization in. This was a hunter since birth that had sliced and diced more monsters than he could remember, felt their guts and brain-matter spill over him, and he was terrified of Ronald McDonalds?

Something bubbled up in his chest, throat, under his nose, and he tried not to let it out, but he couldn't help a pretty audible, choked snort, his upper-cheeks rising at his tight-lipped, desperately restrained smile.

"S'not funny," Sam muttered, blushing, to which Dean couldn't hold it in anymore. He threw his head back and guffawed.

The laugh mostly just came from the surprise, because  _that_  was unexpected, and a bit of a relief too, but pretty funny. Sam was still blushing, fidgeting a little, but there was a hint of a smile on his face.

"Sorry," Dean said after he was done, but the grin never left. "I just... really didn't expect that."

Sam scrunched his nose up, scratching his cheek awkwardly.

They fell into a silence after as Dean continued his channel-surfing.

Until...

"Clowns, though?" Dean turned to him, eyes and forehead scrunched, a teasing half-smile on his face.

"Shut up," Sam muttered.

Dean grinned.

**...**

Bobby and John came back somewhere around half-past nine, dirtied and bruised and limping a little, but otherwise in one piece.

"How'd it go?" Dean asked from where he was waiting for them. Sam was sleeping inside, fell asleep through the next movie they played, which was Good Morning Vietnam. Dean had to half-carry him back to the bed from the couch, and was pleasantly surprised to see that, although Sam had flinched away from him initially, he had melted back into the grasp around his back when he saw it was just Dean. It was progress, and it also warmed Dean's heart to see the newfound trust.

"Was one violent son of a bitch," John growled, limping. "Which makes sense, I guess."

Dean nodded.

"He's bein' overdramatic," Bobby waved his hand at him. "Threw us around a bit. Not too uncommon when you're huntin' a ghost."

"You're just sayin' that 'cause you weren't the one standing guard," John muttered. "Bastard only decided to throw you against a headstone at the last minute."

Dean watched in amusement for a while as they bickered in front of him, until Bobby eventually out-snarked his Dad (nobody messed with Bobby. Dean learned that time and time again). John sighed and shook his head in defeat.

As they both began to walk towards their respective rooms, Dean spoke up.

"Dad?" Dean said, and John turned around. "Can we talk alone for a minute?"

John glanced at Bobby, who nodded and headed off towards their shared room.

"Talk," John said. "Make it quick. I'm beat and barely standing on my feet here."

"Alright, uh…" Dean felt nervous, which probably showed in his tone because John seemed a little confused and worried. Dean shifted on his feet, exhaled and ploughed through. "I know you got issues with Sam. And I know why." John seemed alarmed and defensive, without any reason, according to Dean. Dean wasn't going to say anything that needed any defending. Or maybe it's because he knew where it was going, who they were going to talk about. It was still a sensitive topic, still a raw wound that they never went near because the risk of even brushing it and making it bleed still felt too overwhelming. "I just want you to know that it's not like that, okay? No one's replacing him. Sam's gonna stay with us, and he's a great kid… but we're not trying to fill his place in our family with Sam." He hesitated. It was still hard saying his name. "Adam's always gonna be my little brother. Your son."

John didn't say anything. Dean didn't say anything more.

But something seemed to have cleared between them. Dean felt like they had reached an understanding and his Dad seemed a little easier and open when he gave him a smile, lines barely there on his tired face, but there. He nodded and looked down at his shoes, something a bit vulnerable in that gesture alone.

"Sam's doing fine, I hope," was all John said.

Not  _that kid_ , like some nameless boy he didn't care enough to know about. But  _Sam_ , like someone he might be able to like someday. Dean thought maybe something cleared between him and Sam too now.

John turned around, walked off towards his room. Dean smiled and, after a while, did the same.

  


 


	11. Chapter 11

They drove to Bethel, Delaware in the chase of another hunt. Sam turned out to be a good researcher. Dean wasn't surprised at that, really, because he knew Sam was a smart kid (seemed like the kind who'd enjoy analytical tasks like these), but what did surprise him was how there was still, yet, another thing that made him strikingly similar to Adam, the little brother he lost and never forgot for a second. He was always there, the presence of his memories and thoughts of him, lurking in the back of his head every day. His face, the color of his hair, the sound of his laughter, his voice; they had long faded from his mind though.

He knew it wasn't right, constantly comparing Sam to the little brother he lost. He knew it was building expectations and hopes that would eventually be broken, proven wrong, and they would hurt more and more the deeper he went in. Sometimes he wondered if Sam only reminded him of Adam because he  _wanted_  him to.

Most of all, he knew it was wrong to be using Sam as some kind of anchor, a crutch, a way of coping with his grief, easing his pain. Sam didn't even know anything about it, about all the ways Adam haunted him through him.

It wasn't as if he didn't like the kid without all of that, though. It wasn't as if he wouldn't have taken him in if he never reminded him of Adam. Sam was a good kid, kind and smart and selfless; that was who he was, and that was a good enough reason to keep him around.

But Adam was a good kid too, wasn't he? He was also kind, smart, selfless. He also loved researching and books and dogs.

The contemplation made his mind feel like it was splitting, jerking two ways in confusion. He didn't know what he felt and what he thought anymore, wondered if his selfishness and kindness had blended into something so indistinguishable that he could no longer know his own intentions clearly towards Sam, towards the reason why he saved him and took him in. Was it pure and altruistic, just to help an innocent boy who had nowhere to go? Or was it for his own self-interested benefit, something to ground him into reality every time he felt himself slip into that black hole that sucked his life out of him, something that made that fissure in his chest a little more closed, made the pain of it a little lesser?

"Harpy from the Greek and Roman mythology," Sam announced, startling Dean out of his puzzled pondering. "According to the source, they were not always monstrous, but rather wind spirits and were depicted as beautiful young women with wings. However, over time, they developed into loathsome beasts. They became ravenously hungry and would steal food or eat people before taking away their souls. It fits. All the witnesses are claiming to have seen a bird-like woman and the victims were all shredded to pieces."

"Huh," Dean said, frowning. "Guess we found our monster."

He straightened from where he had been leaning against the wall while he listened, and as he did, he gave Sam a light pat on the shoulder. "Good job there."

The flash of surprise across Sam's face, and the way he ducked his head with a smile, beaming into the ground, made Dean's heart ache (because it was obvious that nobody had ever told him how proud they were of him) and also warm with the sight (he felt glad that he could do that for him now though).

**...**

"You're still not ready to go on hunts though," Dean said as he zipped up his bags, a concerned frown on his face when he glanced up at Sam, his gaze raving over him observantly.

"No, I-I think I feel better," Sam said, feeling slightly exposed under Dean's scrutiny. He also felt like the longer he went without being useful, the more they would all grow annoyed with him, which was something he didn't want. They were good people, probably the best he'd ever known. "I think I can do this."

"Sam," Dean warned, eyebrow raised in admonishment.

"I think I can," Sam repeated, knowing this was exponentially better than most of the states he had hunted in. He was grateful that Dean allowed him the time to heal as much as he had.

Dean stared at him, gauging his honesty. He still sounded uncertain when he asked, "You sure about this?"

Sam nodded.

Dean sighed, nodded too. "Alright then. But if you feel even a whiff of anything, you stop and let me know, okay?"

Sam nodded. That was another thing. Dean gave him choices, asked him what he wanted to do and let him decide for himself, in things as simple as what he wanted for dinner to whether he wanted to hunt or not. But usually, even in the smaller things, he found it hard to answer, found himself too indecisive because he wasn't used to it. He thought about that and felt ashamed with himself that he had let anyone control him like that, that he had let his  _fear_  of anyone control him like that. He should have been stronger, should have stood up for himself.

"Alright," Dean said, clapping his hands with a feral grin only reserved for the monsters he loved to slice apart. "So how do we gank this bitch?"

**...**

"You boys come over with me to my place after the hunt," Bobby suggested. "Stay a while, eat some homemade food."

"Will do, Bobby," Dean said with a small nod, smiling. He glanced at Sam, who was packing up his things on the bed. Dean's face wavered, and he looked back at Bobby. "I think he's making progress. With me, anyway. But..." He paused, exhaled. "But I'm not sure staying with us is good for him. I mean, after what he's been through... and he's still just a kid, and..."

"What?" Bobby pressed when Dean didn't continue.

Dean sighed deeply again, glanced back at Sam once more. "I was hoping you could take him in. Let him live with you until he decides he wants to move out or whatever. It'll be good for him."

Bobby could see that Dean wanted him to stay, the way his gaze seemed a bit heavier and softer with sadness, knew how much the kid had grown on him. But he couldn't deny that it'd be better for Sam.

"We could ask 'im," Bobby said, knowing that was the best thing they could do. "If he wants ta' stay with me or with ya, that's up to 'im."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, still watching Sam. Then he turned back to him again. "Before you do that, though, you might wanna clear his notion about you not liking him."

Bobby spluttered, nearly choking on his beer. "What?"

"I said..."

"Yeah, I know what ya said, ya idjit," Bobby whisper-yelled. He reeled his reactions in for the few seconds Sam's gaze found them, before he quickly went back to his task apprehensively, as if he thought that if he caught him staring, Bobby would get on his back about it or something.

"That damn idjit thinks I don't like him?" Bobby asked, his voice low. Dean shrugged. "Why?"

Sometimes, Dean really did know how to be unapologetically blunt. "Well, ever since your little awkward display at the motel, he thought it was because you didn't want him around."  _Well, don't sugarcoat it, would ya?_  Bobby thought. "Honestly, I still ain't sure what that was about, but I'm pretty damn sure that wasn't it. He thinks you think less of him after finding out about…uh…"

Bobby nodded in understanding so Dean didn't have to struggle to finish the sentence. Sam was oblivious that he was the topic of their hushed conversation, but Bobby couldn't help but stare at the poor boy, suddenly feeling so heavy on his chest that it almost left him breathless. Sam caught his gaze again, flinched and swallowed, quickly looking away to suddenly find the straps of his new bag completely fascinating.

"Ah, boy," Bobby murmured sadly.

**…**

Bobby thought he was a big friggin' coward when it came to fixing emotional damages he caused, unwilling as it may have been. He had been standing by his truck, trying to muster up courage to go up to the kid and subtly show him that things were good between them. Maybe give him a light whack up the head for even doubting that for a second. Bobby could never stop liking that boy if he tried.

Eventually though, he gave up and decided the best time would be after the hunt.

**…**

The hunt was successful, in the sense that they had gotten the Harpy and had eradicated one more evil from hurting others in this world. Concurrently, it didn't go too well, in the sense that it didn't end before Sam had jumped between a sneaky Harpy and an oblivious Dean and had the end of its claws sunken into his stomach, the result of which was a panicky trip to the hospital and leaving behind John and Bobby to deal with the monster.

"Stay with me, Sammy," Dean whispered, running a hand through the kid's hair, the other firmly gripping the wheel. "Just a few minutes more."

**...**

Sam was reaching for a glass of water, feeling the split flesh in his abdomen stretch at his exertion. He was almost there, almost touching the side of the glass, almost able to push it closer towards him with the tips of his fingers until...

Until another hand came into his view, picked it up and handed it to him like it was the easiest thing in the world. It was, for the ones who weren't lying in a hospital bed with a gash in their stomach, he supposed. He felt useless and stupid. Probably because he already was those things. But he was worried and afraid that Dean and Bobby and John would get sick and tired of him and kick him out, because it only made sense. All he had ever done so far was get hurt and get others hurt, and had been nothing but a failure and a screw-up and just completely worthless in everything he did.

He didn't look up at the face, for fear of having all his thoughts solidified even more, but he knew that it was Dean's face he was going to find, and he knew he was going to break if he found all the things he had found everyday in his Dad's eyes and in Rick's eyes. He wanted to apologize, but he didn't want to know that it was valueless, so he stayed silent like the coward he was.

Sam's hand shook as he drank his water.

"What you did was stupid, Sam," Dean whispered. Sam flinched, closing his eyes and trying to stop shaking with his anxiety and dread. This was it. Dean had enough of his bullshit, and was going to tell him to get lost, and Sam hated himself. Hated himself for ruining the life he could have had with the best person he had ever known, right along with Bobby. But maybe it had all been too good to be true from the start anyway, and he never should have hoped. He never should have... "It could have been your heart. You could have been killed. They had to put fucking stitches in your stomach, you know that?"

Sam swallowed, felt overwhelmed and confused at the anger and the words. Dean was pissed, really pissed up until the tone of his voice, but his words were concerned and afraid, like he cared, like it would have mattered to him if it had been his heart instead.

"I..." Sam croaked, wanting to at least try to respond. His head felt clogged with too many thoughts and intense emotions, and his chest felt heavy with the pressure of uncertainty and anticipation of consequences. He still didn't know what Dean really felt, didn't know what he'd do next, and truth be told, it scared him. But he felt like he was supposed to try to explain. "I wan'ned..." He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes firmly on his hands. "to save you."

Dean fell silent. To Sam, silences like these were often unpredictable, right after an explanation for something he screwed up. It was either left at a glare, a mutter of an insult, or a punch right over his eye. Sam swallowed, finding himself wondering which one it was going to be with Dean, just for a second.

It was none.

Dean exhaled, took the glass he was holding and set it back on the little nightstand, and dropped down on the edge of his hospital bed. Sam never dared to look up, still. Still not sure whether the voice was true or the words.

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

Sam's head shot up, brows furrowed. He looked before he could even think about what he would discover again, and by the time his mind caught up, he realized how wrong it was. Dean wasn't looking at him with hatred or disgust or disappointment or annoyance. He was just looking at him remorsefully, guilt and sorrow mixed into his green irises, and Sam couldn't understand this.

"Why?" he asked.

"You're just a kid. You're still recovering from all the crap you went through. I should have protected you instead of having been the reason you got hurt in the first place. I should have watched out for that Harpy."

And Sam still couldn't understand.

"It's... it's not your fault."

"I should have kept you safe," Dean said.

"It's not your responsibility," Sam said. "You barely know me."

"You barely know me either. You still decided to jump in between a Harpy and me to save my life."

"I screwed up the hunt along the way, so there's that."

" You didn't screw up anything."

"Well... I seem to always either hurt others or get hurt myself."

"Is this still about you accidentally shooting my dad? Because it was an accident, Sam. He's already moved on from it, and so should you."

"Doesn't matter. Point is, you're all gonna get sick and tired of me and tell me to fuck off someday," Sam said, defeated and tired and accepting. He seemed too exhausted to filter what he wanted to say and what he didn't, courtesy of morphine.

"Sam..." Dean said, shaking his head. "Sam, that's not true. You're... we're not doing to do that, okay?"

Sam fell silent, stared at him through a gaze quickly growing foggy with tears.

"I don't get you."

"What?"

"I don't get you." Sam repeated, tears clouding his pinched, reddened eyes.

"Why?"

"I..." Sam trailed off, shook his head. Opened his mouth, closed it again, and opened it again, as if he didn't know how to explain.

He sucked in a deep breath. "R-Rick... he 'ated me, an-an' it made sense. I knew all... all the reasons it was, the reasons it coul' be," he whispered, sounding breathlessly sad and confused, and his voice shook, face crumpling. "But you... you're good to me. An-an' I can't understand why."

Dean's heart panged, and he shook his head, like he was the one confused. Maybe he was too. It was painful to imagine that these were the thoughts that went through his head every day, a kid as good as him. He reached out a hand and put it on the side of his neck gently.

"I have a lot of reasons, Sam," Dean said, his voice no louder than Sam's was. "Some of them have to do with who I am, and some of them have to do with you." He paused, sighed, and leaned closer. "And I'll give you a little clue about one of them." He laid a hand, somewhere between the bandaged wound under his gown and his heart, and Sam wasn't sure which one it was meant to be. Maybe it was both. "This right here. That's why."

He kept his hand there, on his neck, just staring at him firmly for a moment, as if trying to sink this truth into him. And then, with that, he stood up, nothing more to say. That was good, because Sam didn't know what to say either. All he could do was stare, watch his back as he walked towards the door, and with one glance behind him, disappeared on the other side of that door as it fell shut with a click.

After a while, Bobby came in, and Sam's chest fizzled with more dread, felt sick and uncertain all over. He didn't know what Bobby was here for, what he was going to say, how he was going to look at him (he looked away and never dared to move his eyes away from the wall next to him). As he came in through the door, sensing him standing beside him while he laid uselessly on a hospital bed, he felt small and pathetic, awkwardness crawling under his skin, queasy in his stomach.

"Sam?" Bobby said softly, unusual for such a gruff voice.

Sam stayed quiet, his mind empty, his lungs and throat heavy enough to feel like he'd have to strain his voice out.

A scruff and screech of a chair sliding, metal legs clinking to land against marble tiles. "I know ya went through a lot, boy," Bobby started.

**...**

"And I know that what ya went through has… has made you feel real down, which is an understatement. I know that things have changed too fast for ya, and you're scared and finding it hard to trust anyone. But dear god, boy," Bobby said softly. "How could ya ever doubt that I love ya like my own son? I only wanted ya ta' have a friend, boy. That's all it was back there."

Sam didn't ask how he knew, maybe because he already knew who told him. "You haven' talked much t'me since... since you foun' out," Sam said quietly, breathing tremulously, holding his tears in and breaking Bobby's heart. "S'like you were avoidin' me."

"Yeah, I guess I kinda was." Sam flinched at that, and Bobby sighed sadly, knowing how he took it. He continued, "I was ashamed. Shoulda' known what was goin' on. I saw the signs, and I shoulda' figured out what it meant, when you wouldn't get yer shirt off even when yer bleeding through it, the random flinches when I moved too fast or spoke too loud, how ya were talkative all the time with me, and then suddenly got quiet whenever they all came 'round. I had a Daddy who was an abusive bastard. I shoulda' known better than anyone."

Sam 's eyebrows furrowed, sniffed and shook his head. "It wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't yer fault either then. Boy, yer the last person to be blamed for what happened to ya." Bobby paused, and breathed deeply, looking off to the wall next to him. "And maybe if I had known… ya know? I coulda' stopped it. I… I shoulda' known.

Silence fell over the room after, and it gave Bobby a moment to think about living in a place where nobody wanted you and everybody kicked you down, and when that  _everybody_  was supposed to be your family.

"It doesn' matter 'nymore," Sam said, even though Bobby knew it was far from the truth, because things like that didn't just go away, didn't just stop mattering even after everything was okay. His eyes were glassy with morphine, and he was smiling (smiling because, what? Because he didn't hate him? Goddamnit, this kid was ripping his heart apart). And then it faded, and he glanced up at him. "You don' hate me?" he asked, his voice small.

"Never, ya idjit," Bobby said, his hand slipping into his. "And don't you breathe a word of this to anyone, or I  _will_  whack you up the head."

**...**

Sam laughed at that. Laughed like he hadn't allowed himself to in front of anyone for a long while, not since the last time he had visited Bobby three years ago, not since his world had tilted on its axis, became disorienting and confusing and too fast and too different. But better. So much better.

Bobby didn't hate him. Dean didn't either. And it was the first time he had ever felt like all that hope on the better days (not good, just better) meant something, were for something after all, instead of just something to hold himself on from one day to the next, endlessly and hopelessly, with no real destination in mind.

Today, he realized he had found it.

  


 


	12. Chapter 12

**-15th April 2000**

Almost a month later, Sam was cooped up in Bobby's house, resting and reading and recuperating. The scratches were healed mostly, scabs wearing off to become the scars underneath, and too deep to ever fade away after. But Sam was okay with that, okay with scars that reminded him that he had saved someone's life. Dean's life.

He was resting and reading and recuperating, but most of all, most pathetically, he was missing Dean. He hadn't seen him again since the day after his discharge, the evening he left, and he remembered how Dean had ruffled his hair and smiled kindly at him, patted his cheek and thanked him for saving his life. He almost felt embarrassed at how much he missed him, how much he thought about him, considering Dean probably only even remembered him once a week or so.

But still, he wanted to see him again, wanted him to talk to him and eat with him and laugh with him and watch movies with him and tell him that he wasn't as bad as he thought he was, just in the little things he bothered to do that Sam didn't even know was normal until he observed Dean, like sparing him a glance and a smile, just out of nowhere and for no reason, patting his shoulder and praising him for a good job, or just talking about stupid, pointless things that weren't supposed to even matter but  _did_ because his Dad and Rick never did that with him.

Sam missed him a lot more than he probably should, this twenty-one year old man that he had only known for about a week, but he couldn't help but hope, almost achingly, that Dean would come by again. He hoped Dean wouldn't forget about him or get bored of him. He knew he was too quiet, too shy, too scared, knew he didn't make as good company as the hundreds of other far more remarkable people Dean might have come across, but he hoped they could still be good friends.

He couldn't help but think that he never felt as happy as he did then, except when he was with Bobby. But being with Bobby was rare before, something once every few years, and he remembered feeling the same ache of longing whenever the car drove away from the house. He remembered being left in the backseat, watching it until it faded way beyond the road, speed devouring the closeness, shrinking its vision until it became nothing. He remembered the churning sickness of knowing that it'll probably be many years before they came around here again, knowing that he wouldn't be feeling as safe and secure and happy as he had until then.

But his family was gone. They weren't here anymore. There was just him and Bobby, and Dean and John somewhere out there a thousand miles away, but already joined within  _his_  world, filling a huge part of it. It was stupid to feel that way, he thought, because they probably didn't feel the same, considering what a short time they've spent together.

But what hit him in full-force in that moment was the pure, absolute absence of his father, and the incomplete absence of his brother (it's always nagging at him in the back of his head, the fear that he'll find him again someday), and he felt like it was finally hitting him hard, but maybe it should have hit him harder than this, and maybe he felt ashamed that it didn't because they  _were_ his family, but even then, it was hitting him hard enough.

He realized it wasn't the sadness and loss that hit him most. It was something good, something achingly like hope and a new beginning, melding in with all the sad emotions. He suddenly felt like he had been living in a low-resolution movie ever since he had watched the police drive away with his brother, like all the colors and senses had been dulled down, because it was too fast and too sudden and too much for his brain to completely take in everything it meant.

And it meant no more bruises and cuts and sleeping with a raw, swollen heart. It meant no more of a scraping void of loneliness in his chest and a stone in his stomach and a burn behind his eyes. It meant learning to be painless someday, and it meant learning that something like this wasn't as impossible to imagine when you were living it. But it also meant learning to realize that it wasn't impossible to last (God, he hoped it wasn't impossible to last for someone like  _him_ ). And he was actually crying a little, without really knowing why, honestly, because this was good. This was good and confusing and unfamiliar and too much to learn, and it was night, and somehow, the lack of light in his room allowed his heart and mind to be open to everything it was too busy to take in during the day. He felt vulnerable and unguarded, and he felt happy and sad in a way he couldn't understand at all.

But he felt happy, most of all. And he missed Dean. He wondered when he'd see him again.

**...**

The answer turned out to be next morning. Sam heard a commotion going on under the floors of his room, from below, and he didn't know who it was so he didn't check. Sometimes, hunters that weren't Dean and John passed by, staying awhile for an hour or two with Bobby, so he figured it must have been someone like that. He had even met a few once or twice. One of them was named Caleb. Caleb was young, but a bit older than Dean, and he was nice with a rough edge, almost like Dean. There was Jim too, who was a pastor  _and_  a hunter, which Sam thought was kind of cool, and he was gentle and soft-spoken, as he imagined a pastor would be, and Sam couldn't help but instantly take a liking to him too. He didn't know them too well considering how recently they have met, and only for a short time at that, but they had talked to him and asked him questions and smiled at him (like Dean had), and he just had this sense that they were good people.

But he hadn't known the muffled, loud noises were Dean's voice until he accidentally looked out and caught sight of the Impala that he knew Dean loved (he remembered how he told him it was his home, but he looked a little sad too when he said it, like something was missing there), and then he was dropping his book, To Kill A Mocking Bird, and climbing out of bed and almost racing down the stairs. He was conscious enough to be quiet, so he wouldn't seem too abashingly and pathetically over-excited about the arrival of a man who would probably just remember of his existence when he saw him.

He found himself down at the bottom of the stairs, found himself staring into the kitchen, at Dean with a beer on the table in front of him.

And suddenly, he didn't know what to do, how to act, what to say. It had been about three weeks, and it was like he had forgotten how it all worked and how it was all supposed to feel and what his role was here. He was staring at the ground, fingers clasped uncertainly around the mahogany rail.

And he felt stupid, and needy, and ashamed of it. And he felt ashamed of  _why_  he was so needy, so easily attached, so easily liking anyone who gave him the time of day.

He made to turn, to slowly trod up those stairs right back. It didn't matter. Dean didn't care, and he didn't know what to do around him, so it was good. It made him sad a little (a lot), because of how much he had looked forward to this, but it all made him feel so dumb.

"Sam!"

Sam froze as Dean's voice called out to him, cheerful and echoic in the slight hollowness of a large enough house. He turned his head and looked at the man, who was waving his head over to him. He complied, turning around completely with the rest of him, slowly walking forward, but still feeling the lightness of doubt and hesitance in his knees. He stilled trudged on, walking and walking the distance (it seemed longer than it should) until he was there, sitting right in front of him.

And Sam's eyes fell on the white on his leg. A thick, solid cast all over from the curve around his ankle to a little above his knee. There was also some blood on the side of his shirt, three little flickering smears of red.

"What happened?" Sam asked, words out in worry before he could take them back.

Dean glanced down at his leg, and back up at him. "Oh, this? Ass move on my part. Chupacabra. I let it scratch my side and hurl my ass all the way over to a tree so Dad could get it from behind, heard a snap, saw something was poking out in my leg. Well, Dad was pissed that I just jumped in right in front of the thing like that, but it saw us already, and I wanted to distract the son of a bitch before it could come at both of us and there'd be no one conscious, or alive, to finish the hunt, so I did what I did. Heat of the moment." Dean said all of that pretty casually, taking a sip of his beer after. Bobby was leaning against the counter, staring at Dean silently behind him, and there was something in his gaze that Sam couldn't fathom, but it made him feel like there was something he wasn't understanding.

And Sam raised an eyebrow, jaw slightly agape. "Dean, that's... you shouldn't do stuff like that."

"Why not? It ended the hunt sooner than it would have if I didn't do that."

"Hunting's not a game. You were playing with your life there," Sam said seriously. "It doesn't matter how long it would take. You just have to make sure everyone, including you, comes out alive. And that the monster is dead."

Dean shrugged. "Guess you're right. But hey, listen," he said, leaned a bit forward, and grinned. "My dad dumped me here and went off to do all the fun work. Kind of his way of putting me in the naughty corner so that I could 'think about what I've done." He rolled his eyes. "But I'll be here for a long while, 'til my leg's all good, and it'd be cool to spend some time with my favorite little squirt."

Sam grimaced. "I'm not a squirt," he said, trying not to blush or grin. "I'm an inch taller than you."

Dean squinched his mouth to the side. "Touché. You've got a little meat on you too now. But you're still my squirt." He reached across the table, as far as his leg would allow, which was enough for him to be able to mess up his hair.

Sam smiled, shaking his head and patting it to settle his hair down.

After that, they fell into a period of silence. Sam looked back at Bobby, who seemed lost in grave thoughts, and that worried Sam because he had never seen him so quiet and solemn. Whatever it was, it had been there since Dean arrived.

"How's the stomach?" Dean asked, cutting Sam's stare away from Bobby, and landing on him. Dean looked soft, smiling lightly with his eyes, like he was genuinely happy to see him. Sam didn't quite know what to do with that.

"It's... it's fine. Better now," Sam answered, smiled back at him. He was still quiet in the way he spoke, but he didn't stutter as much anymore, which may have had to do with the ease and comfort he had gotten used to with Bobby over the month. He felt that same kind of trust with Dean.

"That's good," Dean said, nodded. Sam took into account the grimness on Bobby's face, and the dark shadows under Dean's eyes, and couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something he didn't know. It wasn't really his business, whatever it was, but it made him concerned and a little afraid because it seemed big. Big enough to make Dean lose sleep over it and to put that look on Bobby's face.

**…**

"S'happenin' again, 'sn't it?" Bobby asked knowingly, quiet with sorrow. Memories flashed through his head, hospitals and blood and claw-marks that were too wide and deep because of a lack of retaliation.

Dean's gaze was fixed firmly on the label of the bottle, twirling it around in his hand, like he needed a movement that he could pretend he was more interested in than this conversation. "What?"

"Don't play dumb with me, boy," Bobby breathed, shaking his head slightly. He leaned back against the counter, feeling weariness creeping up his shoulders and back, staring at him. "You know what."

Dean snorted, smiled bitterly. "You mean my little suicidal tendencies to jump right between a monster's teeth?"

"Yeah," Bobby said. "That's exactly what."

Dean remained silent, still never budged his eyes away from the bottle, and Bobby's heart was full, seeing him become the sad, guarded boy from six years ago. "Ya said you were gettin' better, boy," Bobby said tiredly, running a hand over his beard.

"I was," Dean said.

"Then what happened?"

Another silence, and he could watch the flicker of emotions across Dean's face. Contemplation among one of them. Bobby wished he didn't have to think about whether he should tell him about his troubles or not.

Dean sighed, rubbing at his eyes, red and itchy with exhaustion. "Sam."

"Sam?" Bobby asked, confused.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean said, his hand coming to rest over his bowed forehead, elbow on the table, as if it was hard to hold his head up. "Looks nothing like him, but god..." He shook his head a little, huffing. "He smiles like him and laughs like him and... he's everything like him. I mean, he's quiet and smart and kind-hearted and... and good, loves books and fucking salads and research and..."

His voice faded off at the end, shoulders shaking as he ran his hand down his face. And Bobby realized how true it was, how terrifyingly similar both of them were.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with that?" he whispered, his voice trembling and thick. "It's like I was finally just... starting to believe, at least half-way, that I could do this, live the rest of my fucking life without that kid and then Sam just comes along, and reminds me of — of all the things I'll never have again."

Bobby stared at the ground, arms crossed. Dean sounded broken, so hopelessly broken, and the only thing that could glue him back together, that could take that brokenness out of him, was gone. Adam. The boy he loved like a son himself.

But maybe there was another thing that could. Another boy.

Bobby hoped that what he said next wouldn't be taken the wrong way. He could imagine how scared Dean had been, seeing a brother in someone else after having lost one already, feeling those same feelings for Sam and wondering if this was a disloyalty. Or maybe, to feel like he was exploiting Sam. He shifted, readied himself for whatever reaction he'd get, exhaled, and said it, straight and clear.

"Ya could have it with Sam."

And that was what finally made Dean look up, made his head shoot up so fast, he swore he heard it crack. "What?"

"Ya could have it with Sam," Bobby repeated, shrugging, like it was just that easy. He knew it wasn't, though, but he wanted him to understand that he could.

Dean glared at him, angry and incredulous (like he couldn't believe he even suggested it), almost betrayed, almost brittle (and almost trying not to look like he wanted someone to tell him that it was okay to want this). His jaw was clenched, his lips pursed and eyes aflame. For Dean, that meant only two things; forgetting Adam or involving an oblivious kid into his emotional issues, using him as a pain-reliever for the grief of losing his brother.

But they didn't have to be the same things, and he needed to know that.

"No," Bobby said, not having to hear him say anything more than the look on his face, because he knew that boy better than most. "I don' mean ya replace yer little brother. Ya can't do that if ya tried. But what I  _am_  sayin' is that ya can love Sam, and ya can love Adam. Ya can have both. I'm saying ya both went through a ton of crap, and ya both got something ya need in the other, and that not everyone gets somethin' like this to help 'em move on. That's what I'm saying, boy. Ya ain't forgetting Adam, not replacin' him or disownin' him, if ya let yaself find a brother in Sam."

He watched as Dean's glare softened, and he looked back at the table, something hopefully contemplative on his face. He was considering Bobby's words, and that was a step forward in his book.

With that, he pushed off the counter and left him to his thoughts, exiting the room.

  


 


	13. Chapter 13

**-30th April 2000**

Sam was pretty happy about all the time he was getting to spend with Dean. Over time, in only the span of the two weeks they had gotten to know each other, he had developed some odd, childish kind of hero-worship. He was too old for that, maybe, but he couldn't help but see Dean as a hero, one who had made everything better for him. He felt bad for thinking that, thinking that things were better while Rick was rotting away in prison because of him, but at the same time, he couldn't deny it. He felt selfish for it, but he couldn't.

Dean was great, and Sam had only gotten to learn how much greater he was in the past few weeks he had been with him. He had taken it upon himself to help Dean through everything, to take care of him even though Dean was constantly refusing that he needed it, but he thought it was the least he could do, the smallest bit of compensation for everything, and it wasn't really planned. It just started happening, without much thinking. He started off by getting him his meds, then started helping him walk around, or just simply following behind him to catch him, just in case, when Dean wanted to move around on crutches despite complaining about how much he hated them, got him his meals upstairs when he was too spent from acting like a tough, macho guy who didn't need help with limping around on his broken leg.

Sometimes Dean let him read to him, because there was nothing else to do for him, and he said it wasn't as great as watching TV, but it was close enough. Sometimes they just talked, or Dean talked, mostly, and Sam listened, listened like they were the most important things in the world to know, to remember, like it could save lives. Just trying to soak in all of that knowledge about Dean, who he was, what he liked (they made the best cherry pies in Maine), what he wanted from life (not much, he said, just wanted to help his Dad, save people, hunt down the monsters who tried to kill them. He said he used to want to be a firefighter when he was a kid, because his mom died in a fire. He looked really sad, but he changed the subject as soon as it came).

Dean asked him questions too, smiled at him a lot, like he was happy to be with him. But Sam couldn't understand why, because he wasn't as good as he thought him to be. He could barely talk most of the time. Dean listened too, very well for someone who liked to act cocky and boisterous at times, and he listened like Sam's words meant anything even though all he was saying was that he liked watching the stars and the sunrise, had always wanted to see the ocean too. Liked eating chicken sandwiches and drinking vanilla lattes, even though he only got to taste them a few times, which was while he was at Bobby's, and that sometimes he prayed to God and angels.

At his most vulnerable, when they were just nearing the anniversary of her death, he talked about his mom, about how she died because he had kept quiet about something he shouldn't have, and if he had just told someone... well, his family never would have hated him as much as they did. She would have been alive, and they would have been happier. Told him about how drunk his Dad would get on that day, and how much worse it all was compared to other days, and how Rick would just stand by and watch, burning with the same fire as their father. He'd tell him he deserved it when he cried, and after a while, he learned to be silent about it.

He told him that his mother died just two days before his birthday. They had her funeral on that day. It was why he didn't like May 2nd at all.

This wasn't planned either. He thought about holding it all in until they passed way beyond that day, thought about not worrying Bobby about it, and knowing Dean wouldn't want to hear his sob stories. But it was too much, too much pushing out from inside of him, too much to choke down his throat and hold his tongue on, and Dean kept asking and asking and asking while he wondered why it mattered to him so much, and before he even knew it, it was all tumbling out, falling from his lips, every word, everything he had clamped down on since he could remember because nobody was there to listen or care. Now there was. There was someone who listened and cared and gently, tentatively reached out to grasp the back of his neck, squeezing, tugging him in for a hug and whispering it was okay when he couldn't stop apologizing for being so weak.

Somehow, he had expected to hear Rick's words in somebody else's voice, even though they never would have fitted with Dean's. But he had been waiting, fearing, anticipating to hear him telling him to  _stop being such a fucking baby_  and  _you're a pathetic piece of shit_ , and he was ashamed and embarrassed for breaking down so easily. His father, his brother, they would have been disgusted.

But Dean wasn't. Dean just held him close, like he had known that this was all that he needed, and then gave it to him.

**…**

May 2nd came as fast as any day, maybe a little faster than Sam wanted it to. But it meant he could pass it by, get it over with. He didn't expect celebrations, because his mom had been burned on that day, and his Dad would have rather drank and yelled and beat, and his brother would have rather grieved and hated more than usual and told him he deserved it. And he understood. God, he understood, even agreed. He wasn't bitter about it. He was just sad.

But he still couldn't take in all the ways everything had completely changed, still felt like he was living in old patterns of thoughts and emotions and actions, old expectations and habits, and it continued to surprise him as life went on, something a little more colorful and bright and weightless than before, even though there was too much to learn.

When he came downstairs that morning, though, with a load inside of him that reminded him of being worthless and alone and afraid, being sad all the time, he was met with something he didn't expect.

He walked into the kitchen, heavy and tired and wishing his mom was here and he wasn't, and was surprised by the sight of Dean sitting in a chair, injured leg sprawled out, and Bobby standing beside him, party hats on both of their heads and a grin on their faces. There was a small chocolate cake on the table with tiny candles on them, balloons taped up unceremoniously on walls, surrounding them, some on the floor bobbing around out of the way when Bobby moved until he was right in front of him.

"Happy birthday, son," Bobby said, hands on his shoulders.

Sam grinned weakly, almost nervously, as he looked around. "What's all this?"

"Your birthday party!" Dean's voice piped up from behind him. "Me and Bobby woke up at shit'o'clock in the morning, don't even ask when, to set all of this up for you." He was grinning proudly, happily, and Sam was...

Was feeling kind of warm.

"Come on now," Bobby said, smiling, gently shoving him forward towards an empty chair. "Time to make a wish, son."

Sam followed and sat on the chair, in front of the cake, was smiling so hard and stupid that his cheeks must have grown red, or maybe it was the tears burning and pushing behind his eyes and stinging his nose and cheeks and making his throat choke up from all the emotions beneath it. He was happy, stupidly happy, and it was just a birthday party and he didn't know why he was so happy when he should be sad instead.

At that thought, he was suddenly thrown by the waves of guilt and unworthiness. His mother was dead, was cremated on this day fifteen years ago because of him, all because he should have said something and didn't, and he was alive and here and happy on the exact same day and it wasn't  _right_.

It wasn't right, and the smile wore off, and he was left staring at the cake, suddenly wanting to cry again, but for a different reason. Suddenly feeling like he was betraying his mother's memory, feeling dirty and horrible and selfish, the load back inside of him. His mother was dead and he was smiling.

A hand clasped on the back of his neck, and he looked up to see Dean, staring at him gently, deeply, like he  _knew_.

"She would have wanted you to be happy," Dean said softly.

Sam stared at him, swallowed, then looked at the cake hesitantly, then up at Bobby. Bobby nodded with a small smile, reassuringly patted his back while Dean squeezed his nape.

He exhaled, still half-ashamed and sad, but couldn't help the little, soft smile.

He closed his eyes and made a wish, Dean's hand on the back of his neck reminding him that it was okay. He leaned forward and blew all the little flames away, watching the smoke and smiling just a little wider now.

**...**

Dean watched Sam pluck the tape off the small gift that Bobby had handed to him, wrapped up in a newspaper because he said he had forgot to buy proper gift-wrappers, but it was carefully wrapped so that it was heartfelt enough. Dean wished he could have given him something, but he was sort of immobilized for the time being. He watched as he finally spread out the newspaper, unfolded it until it was fully open to reveal an amulet, black cords and a golden charm that had horns.

"Said to have bring good luck, protect ya. I want ya to have it," Bobby said. Sam smiled as he thumbed it, glanced up and told him he loved it.

"Sorry I didn't get you anything," Dean said, apologetically sheepish, and then gestured to his leg. "I would if I could."

Sam shook his head and smiled again. He was smiling a lot today, and that was good. "I understand."

Dean watched as he glanced at Bobby, and then at him, his gaze suddenly soft and deep and shining again, and Dean didn't know how much of it was the light and how much of it was just emotion, the twinkle of joy and the wetness of tears. But he was staring at them both now. "Thank you," he said, genuine gratitude softening his features. "This was... this was great. The best. I... I loved it."

Dean smiled, tried not to let it look too strained or tight because he couldn't help but compare that look on his face to Adam's.

**…**

Four hours later, he saw it again.

He had wanted some grease because Bobby's chili was honestly starting to grow sickening after having so much of it all throughout the month. Bobby knew how to cook quite a few things, and the best of all of them was chili, so they had that more often than anything else, and while Dean had always enjoyed and appreciated one of his greatest dishes, it does start to get a bit too much when you have enough of it. Also, they were running out of groceries again, and Bobby was usually on it, but he seemed pretty tired today, having woken up earlier than usual in order to set up Sam's birthday party, so he figured it'd be cruel to ask him for anything, especially considering how he knew exactly how it felt because he had been up at the same time. His work was mostly blowing up balloons and sticking candles in the cake though, so it wasn't as grueling as Bobby's work, who had to drive about an hour to the best closest bakery, still pretty much half-asleep without his coffee having kicked in yet, and then had to drive over to stores that were still open at 4'o'clock in the morning to search for balloons and candles and party hats, and come back, and set up everything.

So he had to ask Sam instead, who was happy to help. Well, except when he asked him where the nearest take-out and grocery store was, and he gave him all the directions, threw him his car keys (was pretty surprised at how easy it was to do it when he didn't trust many people with his baby), told him it'd been a ten minute drive at most.

Sam had stood there, suddenly all hunched shoulders and ducked face and fidgeting hands, like he was afraid and ashamed, and it made Dean unpleasantly flash back to the first time he had brought him in with him, and he never wanted to see that again.

"What's wrong, Sam?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head, shifting his feet. "Can I j-just… walk?"

Dean held back a wince at the stutter, feeling like all their progress had somehow vanished now. "What? It'll be like… almost an hour of walking. Why don't you wanna use the car?"

Sam didn't reply, just stood there, staring at his shoes.

"Sam?" Dean said, trying not to show the thorough confusion in his head on his face. He was puzzling over it silently.

Until he got it.

"You don't know how to drive," Dean said softly, and felt stupid for assuming he did. Hunters didn't care much about rules, and they usually taught their children how to drive as soon as they looked old enough for it, which, for Dean, was fourteen (but that wasn't really much of a rule-breaker, according to Dean) and he got his learner's permit two years later. He had forgotten, though, that Sam didn't have a family who wanted the best for him, probably wouldn't have taught him anything that could ensure his options to leave.

"N-no," Sam answered quietly, curling even more into himself.

Dean smiled slowly. "Well, you know… I think I just got an idea for your birthday gift."

**…**

"First thing," Dean said importantly, holding up an equally important finger. "Do not scratch my baby. Not even a teeny bit. I trust you, like I have never trusted anyone else in my life outside of my Dad or Bobby, so do not break that trust, you understand me?"

Sam nodded slowly, eyes furrowed, twisting his neck in that way he did whenever he wasn't sure how to react to something. Or maybe when he thought something was weird.

Dean nodded, exhaled. He then proceeded to turn forward and stroke its steering wheel lovingly. "Alright, baby," he whispered soothingly. "You're gonna be in new hands for a while, but I'm right here, alright? Right in the passenger seat. Sammy's a good kid, so I'm sure he'll take good care of you, and you probably…"

"Dean," Sam said, shaking his head.

"…feel a bit uncomfortable right now because he has absolutely no experience in driving, but like I said, I'm-"

"Dean," Sam repeated.

"…right here, and-"

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed. Dean's head snapped up to him.

"What?"

"I, um…I'm sure it's-"

"She."

"Right, uh,  _she_ … she's going to be fine," Sam reassured, frowning. "I'll be careful with it...her, I mean. Her. I promise."

Dean smiled, a bit weakly, nodding.

Then he took a deep breath, blew it out, and leaned back in the seat.

"Alright..." he started, blew out another heavy breath. "To start off, make sure you're comfortable…"

**…**

After giving him the basics of driving, Sam was driving on the road, slow and steady. There were a few jerks and bumps at first, but after a while, he was driving like he had been driving long enough. Except… slower. Still, it was good for someone who had never touched a steering wheel before. Dean was silently impressed at how fast he learned it all, how he listened and took it all in and applied it, and he wondered if this was how Adam would have been too if he had been here, if he had taught him how to drive.

Dean found himself far more relaxed in his seat than he thought he would be. They were driving to the grocery store, and though Dean had to point out a few directions, he didn't have to do much else. He looked over at Sam, who was wide-eyed and carefully focused and smiling excitedly.

Dean couldn't help but smile too. Sam looked really happy to be behind the wheel, an innocent and childlike glint in his huge eyes, and he thought maybe these kind of moments had been pretty rare in his life, and maybe he felt warm and light in his bones that he could be the one to have given him some of them.

The car was slowing just a little sooner than needed, since they were still blocks away from the store. But eventually, they were right in front of it, staring at it. Sam breathed out, shaking slightly, which Dean only noticed now, but he was smiling widely, probably still a little high from the excitement. He looked over at Dean, eyes flickering shyly towards him, hopeful and afraid and silently asking if he did well. He exhaled again, and Dean grinned at him, reaching out a hand and ruffling his hair.

"You did good," Dean said.

Sam was beaming, his young, tanned skin alight with  _something_. Maybe it was just the gentle lights from the windows behind him. But then his chest heaved again, in another quiet, lighter, close-mouthed exhale, and his gaze and his smile softened again with the genuine gratitude, like when he bought him new clothes and shoes, like back at their small party (like with Adam).

Dean felt his heart swell up, in a way he couldn't remember it had since 1992, when he had shot fireworks into the sky in that field in Illinois with Adam, watched the sky become alive with colors and explosions and sounds, colliding into his chest like painless little bullets, but he remembered how it was Adam's grin and the sparkle in his eyes that had really set his world alight and his chest swell up until there was no space in it because it was all taken up by his heart.

Adam had said, with that same genuine gratitude, "Thanks, Dean. This is great. Dad never would have let us do something like this."

And he had watched him stand under the sparks and fire and bright lights, had watched him spread his arms out and turn and grin at him like he had never grinned, had felt himself grin back, time smoother in moments that weren't dragged by heaviness in their chests and bones and bodies, almost surreal with such sharp clarity in those blinding lights burning their eyes. It was like they were all alone in the world, fireworks erupting into the dark night and mingling colors reflecting off their faces, but in a good day. It was like they had their own world between the trees, and they were happy, and nothing else mattered, and it was the first time he had felt grounded and real and at peace.

This was the same. The same, but the quiet kind. There were no colors or explosions or sounds, but there was that grin and that sparkle in his eye and that genuine gratitude, and there were dim morning lights that somehow seemed brighter through the windows of the car, and the world felt less like a daze and more solid and real for a moment when he watched him grin, dimples and perfectly-lined teeth, right at him. He felt like he had done something right. He felt like somebody's hero again.

And it made him think about what Bobby said, made him wonder if it wouldn't be too selfish to want this forever.

  


 


	14. Chapter 14

Dean was still recovering, but he had spent quite a time complaining and whining and trying to convince everyone that he didn't need the cast anymore, even though his injury was severe enough to need four months of it, at least. And they were only about a month and a half in.

Sam's stomach was far better now. He no longer felt even a twinge of pain when moving, and the stairs weren't a dread as they had been during the first few weeks. It was why he had stayed mostly in his room. Bobby hadn't minded, since he would scold him for descending them on his own in the first place. But he had been caught between boredom and uselessness and the pain of climbing down stairs with a stitched stomach, and eventually, the boredom won out and he decided he wanted to at least get a book downstairs and stop feeling lazy by doing nothing.

John dropped by a few weeks later. Dean just about jumped out of his seat when he heard the roar of his father's truck, and Sam had to grip him by the shoulders before he fell over, and Bobby made him sit down silently, to which Sam had to compose himself at the near pout Dean had on his face, and then Bobby made Sam get the door.

Sam was hesitant. After all, him and John didn't exactly get off well, all of which was his own fault. He shot him on their first hunt together, and then potentially caused a possible issue for him with Rick. He wasn't sure he'd be too pleased to see him again.

But the knocks were getting more and more impatient and louder, and Bobby was busy glaring Dean down into staying seated while making sure his chili didn't get burnt. So Sam eventually had to comply, and so he stood up, walked over from the kitchen to the front door, and pulled it open.

Sam's eyes widened as John, without much warning, toppled forward right into him, his large bulk knocking the air out of his chest. His arms came up and grappled to push him on his feet, but the man was already gone, and Sam had to find a way to maneuver out from their awkward positions so that he had John's arm on his shoulder and his own around his back. When that was done, Sam carried him into the house, heart pounding from the exertion on his, admittedly for quite a while now, sedentary body. John was too heavy on him, and he was too thin and lanky, and his height advantage barely assisted him.

John groaned next to him, and he could feel warm blood sticking to his own shirt now.

Dean was worried the moment he walked in with blood on his clothes. It didn't help that he came in about a half an hour later since the knock. Dean had been yelling for them both on and off in the meantime, and Bobby had left to see what was going on after ten minutes of not seeing them.

"Oh god. Is that Dad's?" Dean asked, frantic, sounding desperately as if he was trying to control his voice into a more level tone.

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. "But don't worry. It's not as bad as it looks. It's just a gash on his side. Flesh wound."

Bobby came in behind him, a little less blood on him.

"Yeah," he agreed. "He'll be fine, son. Sam here stitched him up pretty good." He patted his shoulder.

It was after all the tension drained from the room that they all registered the smell. Bobby scrunched his nose up at the burnt chili and walked over to fix the mess.

Dean tried to stand up, only to fall back on the chair helplessly, defeated, as if he knew the moment he lifted his ass up that he wouldn't be able to go far without his crutches. And he hated using those. He groaned, looked up at the ceiling for a while, then sighed.

Sam gave an awkwardly tight sympathetic smile, and gingerly retrieved the crutches from where they were dropped to the ground, handing it to him. Dean sighed again, seemingly trying not to glare at those damn armpit-smelling shits.

Dean braced the crutches against the slippery tiles of the kitchen, and thanked whatever for Sam and his considerate nature as he came up to help him without his asking. He groaned under his breath and wobbled when he stood up on one leg, while Sam kept a careful hold on the crutches so that they don't slide out from under his grasp.

Sam stayed behind him, ready to catch him if he fell. Dean felt a blend of embarrassment as well as fondness, and shaking his head slightly, he walked forward.

**...**

John was on the couch, where Dean slept most of the time now. His father looked pale and tired, his eye bruised, his bare waist bandaged with only specks of blood bleeding through. But he was breathing steadily and evenly, and that was all Dean needed.

Sam brought a chair from the kitchen to the library for him to sit down on. The fondness blooming in his chest was back, and Dean smiled a little at him this time, letting go of one crutch, but still keeping it leaning under his arm, to mess up his hair.

Dean lowered down on the chair, eyes glued on his father's face. Sam sat beside him on another chair.

"He's gonna be fine," Sam assured him once more, looking at him.

"Yeah, I know," Dean replied, nodding. He sighed. "Just wish I could have been there to watch his back, ya know? It's just... he's... he's all I have."

"You have Bobby," Sam said softly, staring down at his hands. And then, quietly and uncertainly... "You have me."

Dean tore his gaze away from his father at that, staring at Sam, who didn't seem to want to look back at him. He knew they had never exactly named this, the bond or friendship or whatever it is that they have, out loud, and he knew Sam wondered if it was even there. Dean could understand, because he had been wondering himself. Sam had been through a lot, and so he didn't know if he was ready to trust anyone other than Bobby after that, especially considering he had only known Dean for about two months now.

It was surprising though, how much he had felt for the kid in such a short period of time.

"Thanks, Sam," Dean said softly, smiled a little once more.

It was then that Sam looked at him, finally, and smiled back.

**...**

John woke up as the daylight lit the house up. Bobby's house, he immediately recognized as his vision cleared and stilled. The next thing that came to his attention was his parched mouth and his leaded bones and his throbbing side, and he shifted slightly in discomfort. He looked over to the side and found Dean on the ground, couch cushions under his head and his leg, a blanket draped over him. He sighed, shaking his head, but couldn't help the tiny, fond smile curling at his lips.

He really did love the boy.

His heart scrunched up painfully as he thought about his other boy, felt the empty space of him in this room and his life and this world like a solid presence, and pushed away the thoughts and memories bubbling up in his head and the crave of whiskey burning down his throat.

Instead, he thought about Sam. Sam, who came from his own broken little family. The kid that Dean was so desperately fond of. He had made his peace with the thought, ever since Dean had assured him that he wasn't trying to replace his brother, John's son, with him. But when he had thought about it later on, it seemed ridiculous, because he knew that it wasn't easy to move on from such a deep loss the moment he found someone else. In fact, it was probably the pain of that very loss that had led Dean to find comfort in Sam. And he knew Dean. He knew Dean wouldn't just replace Adam like that. Yes, maybe he had found something with Sam, something he had with Adam, but it was different than just forgetting him for someone else. That wouldn't be possible if he tried.

He wondered if Dean had told Sam about Adam. He wondered what Sam had thought, or would think.

And then, speak of the devil, Sam was here.

He seemed unaware of John's consciousness, quietly padding into the room with a book in his hands. He glanced over at Dean, maybe to make sure he wasn't disturbing him, or to just see him, John didn't know, but it sure said something when he looked at him first rather than the wounded, bleeding man on the couch. He wasn't sure if Sam even knew he was doing it. But then, he figured, he and Sam hadn't exactly been on the best of terms since Dean had taken him in, which might partially be his own fault. Or completely.

He remembered Bobby's fond voice through the phone, telling him about how well Sam was taking care of Dean.

A thud sound startled him back to the present, and his eyes shoot up to meet Sam's, which were wide-eyed and on him right now, like a deer in headlights, the thought of which almost made him snort.

Sam snapped out of it as soon as it happened, bending down quickly to take his book, which was a different one from the one before; another book to read.

"I'm sorry. I was j-just..." He jerkily gestured his book up. "I was just l-leaving though. Sorry if..."

"Nah. I was already awake," John said, waving dismissively. "Go ahead."

Sam nodded, looked back at the bookcase and took one more. Then he turned back, skimmed his eyes over Dean to check him over, maybe if he was comfortable or not, which John couldn't help but like the kid for. He seemed to care about Dean a lot.

"You been taking good care of him?" John asked conversationally, feeling it as some kind of olive-branch or repentance for his dick behavior towards him before.

Sam looked up at him, stared at him for a while as if he wasn't sure if he was talking to him or someone else. After a while, he nodded. "I'd like t-to think so, Sir."

John nodded back. Sam stood there for a while, as if waiting to see if he'd say anything more. When he didn't say anything after a long while, he turned and walked towards the door, almost finished two steps towards the door when John finally did.

"Why?"

Sam's head snapped up again, stared at him for a while, almost like he couldn't believe John was even talking to him. He couldn't be blamed, since he had barely talked to him much ever since they've met.

"Because I owe h-him, Sir," Sam answered, cleared his throat. He kept his gaze on his books as he spoke the rest. "I o-owe him everything. My way of r-repaying him, I g-guess."

John nodded, features softened. "Dean's a good man."

The way Sam smiled at that, John knew he agreed more than anything.

"That's good of you. Looking out for him." He glanced at Dean. "Somebody ought to take care of the stupid ass. He does it for everyone else, just not himself."

Sam smiled shyly, dimples light and flickering. "I'm g-glad I could do the job, S-Sir."

After he said that, he began to walk out. But he was stopped in his tracks by John's voice, but possibly more than that, his words.

"I'm glad too," John said.

**...**

By the next week, after having recovered enough to move without doubling over, John was gone. He didn't say goodbye to Sam, and maybe that might have made him feel a little sad that he didn't consider him good enough for that, but Dean was cranky about being left behind (he had been pestering John to take him with him for the most of the duration that he'd been around and awake), so Sam tried to focus on that. He went out and drove (he was really getting used to it now, getting more and more comfortable every time he placed his hands on the wheel and pressed down the pedal) for almost an hour to find a place that sold good apple pie, snagged a bag of M&Ms and six-pack-beer from the store along the way and thought, with a shake of his head, the things he did for the guy. It felt good, though, actually wanting to do something like this for someone, because he knew it'd matter.

Dean perked up at the sight of all the things he laid out before him, but the best was when he pulled out the pie. Mouth watering and wide-eyed and his face alight with a grin of childlike joy, only just a hint of nostalgia that you wouldn't see unless you looked real close and careful, the kind that's been felt enough times to wear out into your skin until you can't see it (my mom, she used to make the best apple pies in the whole world. Wish you could have been able to taste it), but it's still there, etched into the creases, a part of it just like another wrinkle.

"I drove an hour for this," Sam said, tossing the keys to Dean, who caught it effortlessly. "So you better be grateful. Maybe share a slice."

"Nah," Dean said, waving away his comment. "I'll find another way to show you my gratitude. But seriously, you drove an hour for this?" He looked a bit bemused and awed.

Sam shrugged, taking his book off the table where he left it before, and plopped down on the couch beside Dean. "I kind of  _wanted_  to drive a little. S'fun."

Dean nodded, grinning proudly. "I know. She's a cool car, ain't she?"

Sam sighed and shook his head at the pronoun, looked down at the book and smiled into it, and smiled even wider when he felt a calloused, soothing hand ruffle his hair.

Dean muttered something about him needing a haircut, and Sam reached out and broke a chunk of Dean's pie and ate it in vengeance to that remark. It resulted in him receiving a glare from Dean, but it didn't make his heart skip and it didn't make him shy away and it didn't make him fear pain. He stole another piece and grinned, and reveled in the ease and Dean's wavering scowl.

**...**

After two more months, Dean's cast was removed. And Sam was caught between that same befuddled mixture of feeling that had become so familiar ever since Dean had taken him away and then Bobby had taken him in. He was sad and happy. Happy because Dean was happy, better, going back to doing what he liked to do. Sad because he was going away, leaving him.

"You're really gonna go," Sam said quietly.

Dean was shoving things into his bags, grabbing his clothes from the half-space of drawers that he and Sam had shared, his guns, a picture of his Mom, his Dad from earlier years, like he was almost ready to make this room home, because it felt like it with Sam. He glanced down at the picture of him and Adam at the beach, left in the duffel that he never dared to take out, too afraid of... of  _something_ , something to do with Sam finding out about it, for some reason (because he felt selfish, and maybe Sam would think he was too). He stilled and breathed, his heart heavy in his chest as if it was filled with water, because Adam was once alive in that picture, and now he isn't, and because Sam felt like home, but now he had to leave. "Yeah, Sammy."

"Time really flew by, huh?" Dean didn't look at him, but there was a tiny, wry smile in his voice.

"It did," Dean replied, nodded. He realized how much he stopped meaning his complaints about wanting to get out of here and go hunt over the months he spent with Sam. He wished he could stay with Sam, but also hunt and save lives. But there was just one or the other.

He heard a rustle of sheets, a scruff of feet. He looked up, just slightly, and saw Sam getting off the bed, something clutched in his hands.

Dean stared at him, and then at his hand curiously. Sam stood before him, looking back at him. His gaze had been steadier these past few months, but it was wavering now, shifting, flickering. It was subtle, but Dean noticed.

"I, um..." Sam started, his hand clenched white. "I don't know. I... it's a little stupid, I guess. But, uh... I just... Bobby said it can protect people, and..." his voice faded uncertainly. Dean was confused, brows pinched, just watching him. Sam sighed, took a deep breath and opened his palm up.

Revealing a black-corded brass amulet, its talisman a horned golden man.

"I-I wanted you t'have it. Y'know, so it can protect you when you're hunting," Sam said softly, wide-eyed and nervous and making Dean's heart sing stupidly.

Dean reached out his fingers, gently unfurled it up from Sam's hand. For a moment, just looking at it, a quiet glint in the lamplight, feeling the silent meaningfulness of it, feeling it buzz in his veins, ache and heat and  _something_ , something like wanting to live again.

Sam shifted on his feet. "Um... if you don't want it... just..." He flitted out a hand in front of him, palm up, waiting.

Instead, Dean lifted it and pulled it over his head, watching the weight settle fittingly against his chest.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean said, rough and intenerated. He cleared his throat, smiled up at him. "I love it."

Sam beamed.

"Don't die," he then said, wide smile gone, dead serious. "Or I'll kick your ass."

Dean chuckled, reached out a hand to the back of his neck and tugged him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around the kid's lanky frame, smiling softly into his shoulder when he felt him return the embrace. Couldn't help but think,  _god, I love this kid_.

And realized that he wasn't half-thinking about doe green-eyes and soft blonde hair and a big-toothed grin. He was only thinking of brown floppy-hair and hazel-puppy eyes and dimpled cheeks. And he was realizing that forgetting Adam and loving Sammy didn't have to be the same thing, and that he could love Sammy because he was Sammy, not because he was like Adam; that he could love them both in the same way, without it being one or the other, without it being selfish. That was okay. That was okay and possible, and maybe  _this_  was what Bobby meant.

**...**

"Why don't ya go with 'im?" Bobby asked Sam, who was sitting on the couch, watching Dean eat his last meal here until next time, which was Bobby's infamous chili again.

Bobby had thought about this a lot. He really had. And while he certainly didn't like the idea of another kid having to travel around on roads and shoot guns at monster-heads, he couldn't help but feel that it would be far more right to keep those boys together. They could find peace in each other from going through what they did, from what they had lost or never really had.

Especially after thinking about Dean's last 'episode'. Something told him that if Sam was with him, it wasn't going to happen again.

"What?" Sam asked, wide-eyed.

"Said, why don't ya go with 'im?"

Sam seemed perked up about that, but also slightly uncertain. He shifted in his seat to turn over to Dean, glancing at him, and then looking back at Bobby.

"You think... you think he'd be... okay with that?" Sam asked tentatively, forehead furrowed.

Bobby shook his head, rolling his eyes and resisting the urge to whack the obliviousness out of his head. "The way that idjit looks at ya? Yeah. Bet he'll love that."

Sam smiled, and Bobby couldn't help but smile too. He pushed himself off the arm of the opposite couch, wiping his hands over his jeans as he stood up straight. "Now, ya wanna tell him the news, or should I?"

**...**

The next morning, just as the dawn lights began peeking orange and yellow shades over houses and buildings, John stood outside Bobby's house, leaning against his truck. He looked tired, surely having driven all night. Dean was already up and ready to go, somewhat eager, somewhat constantly looking towards where Sam would be inside the house, John noticed.

And then Sam was outside the house, striding over towards them, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. It was heavier than the very first time he remembered seeing it, and he knew it must have something to do with Dean.

John looked at him. Dean seemed confused, brows tight, but also something of a flicker in his eyes. Something like hope.

"What you doing, Sammy?" Dean asked softly.

"I..." Sam said, trailed off. He turned his head and looked back at Bobby, standing in the doorway, who gave him a small encouraging smile. He focused back to Dean, back straightening, standing tall and firm and almost defiant, ready to fight on it. "I'm coming with."

"Sam..."

"It's my decision," Sam said, strong and bold and purposeful, in a way that made John think that he had underestimated him a little too much. "I want to come with."

John glanced over to Dean, expected him to protest.

But he just looked proud.

Like he had known that Sam was strong and bold and purposeful all along, even when he couldn't look them in the eye or talk louder than a mumble. He just knew.

Dean jerked his head towards the car, barely containing his grin. "Get your stuff in."

Once Sam had finished settling his bag against Dean's in the trunk, Dean smiled at him, hand on the door.

"We've got work to do."

He pulled it down and shut it close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reminder of what occurred in Sam's past:
> 
> In short (a.k.a a very crappy summarization and probably why I got a C in my English exams *sighs*), Richard Wesson was a transport trucker, and as a result, had to move around a lot, which left his wife, Carol (Sam's mother), lonely at home. This made her susceptible to a monster named Gancanagh, a seductive and attractive creature from the Fair Folk that preyed on vulnerable women. At one point, Sam walked in on them, but being so young, did not understand what was truly going on. His mother told him not to tell anyone about him, which he didn't, and eventually, she got sick from the monster's influence and died.


	15. Chapter 15

**February 2002**

The shape-shifter shoved him down to the ground, and Sam wanted to get up and fight, but his knee still hurt from where it was jabbed against with a boot, enough for him to buckle back down if he tried to stand up too fast, and that wouldn't give him much of an advantage in the combat. He planned for a surprise kick to the groin or the stomach or sweeping him off his legs when he got close enough, which he'd have to do if he wanted to hurt him or kill him, considering he was unarmed.

Dean's carbon-copy rubbed his hands, hands completely like the real Dean's, rough and thin, with a wide, vicious grin on lips that looked like his. But that smile had never been Dean's, and it would never be. It made the shape-shifter almost look like somebody else for a few seconds.

"This is gonna be so much fun," he grinned, wrinkling his nose excitedly.

Sam shifted on the floor, on his elbows, head held up. He fought the urge to scramble away as the shape-shifter neared him and stood over him, tried not to remember all the times he had a shadow loom over him while he laid on the ground helplessly, bleeding and begging for no more.

"So you think of this poor pathetic bastard as a brother?" the shape-shifter asked, pointing at himself, and then laughed, throwing his head back, clapping his hands together. "Oh, _hysterical_. But he already has a brother, didn't you know? He doesn't need another one." He tilted his head, smiling sideways. "He doesn't need you."

Sam's heart clenched slightly, but he didn't show it. Didn't believe it. "Is that your idea of fun? Making up stories about the people you plagiarize?"

"Aw, you think I'm making this up," he cooed mockingly. "Well, why don't you ask him about all the stories then? Oh, and make sure it's bedtime when you do. He used to love reading little Adam books when it was sleepy time."

Sam swallowed, shifted his jaw. Somehow, giving a name made it sound less of a lie.

"Sam. Adam. Am, am. Coincidence? Hm…" fake-Dean said, scrunching his nose up thoughtfully. Sam wanted him to come closer, so that he could finally kick him where it hurt the most.

But when he did step forward, close enough to him to make his move, Sam found himself seized by curiosity, by questions. He couldn't bring himself to do anything just yet.

The shape-shifter kneeled before him on one knee, where he hung his elbow in a casual, easy pose, the other pressed on the ground.

"See, he only keeps you around," he whispered, leaning forward, eyes narrowed, as if he was telling some grave secret. "because of all the trips down memory lane you take him on. Your puppy eyes, your shy little smile, the bookworm act." Then he paused, looked him over with disgust, his mouth curling. "The way you're so fucking needy on him. It's gross. Oh, but he loves it. He loves it because it reminds him of his  _real_  little brother."

Sam inhaled shakily, still wondering whether he should believe him. But it no longer seemed like he was just playing around. Maybe he was still trying to mess with him, but it was with the worst kind: the truth. Maybe he was telling the truth.

"But what happens," he asked, inclining his head to the side in question, like he was trying to figure out a mystery, a puzzle, brows pinched. "when he finally sees through that illusion? Sees that you're not Adam? Will he feel bad for you, suffer your existence? Will he get sick of you and kick you out? This liability that he picked off some dirty carpet under the delusion that you were just like beloved little Adam?" He shifted his head to the side, the wild grin breaking out on his face through the seriousness, teeth bloody from where Sam punched him. "Or will he turn around and beat the shit out of you like your entire fucking family did?"

Sam's head was hazy with revelations and the sudden onslaught of doubt and hurt; at what the shapeshifter said about his family (but Dean always told him that they weren't his family. Not really. Because it should be earned). But mostly, it was about what it said about Dean. Was that true? Was Dean going to just leave him when he realized that he was just Sam? Worthless, pathetic, needy Sam? Was that why he ever kept him around?

It happened fast. He was wallowing in insecurities and fear, and it was stupid that he let himself be so affected, so lost in them, in the middle of a hunt. It was so, so stupid, but he did. And then there is a circle of pressure around his throat, tightening more and more, pushing into his windpipe and cutting off air to his nose and mouth and lungs, blood rushing to his face. He grappled against the hands clenching around his neck, hitting it as hard as his suffocating body could, half in his mind wondering why he was so stupid, and the other half just wanting to survive, wanting for this discomfort of hunger in his lungs to stop.

"What was it your daddy used to tell you? Oh right. Why don't you put everyone around you out of their misery, and  _die_ ," fake-Dean says, grinning, squeezing tighter. "I don't want you, Sam. I just want Adam. But you're not him. You'll never be him."

And suddenly, in the lack of oxygen, in being on the edge of unconsciousness, trying to pull him in and in and in, it was Dean in front of him. The real Dean. There was no shape-shifter, and the breathlessness in his chest was also the sobs he was trying to hold in, the heartache that choked him.

Because Dean had never wanted him. He wanted someone he thought he was like.

And the saddest thing was, he didn't ache because Dean hadn't kept him around for who he was, but that he couldn't be who Dean wanted him to be.

And then it was all forgotten in the blackness that blanketed over him.

**…**

He came to with Dean's concerned face hovering him, and John's in the back. He glanced to the side, and there, a few feet away from him, was the monster who made his heart feel heavy, lying dead with a silver bullet in its head. He wished it never told him, and he could go back to the bliss of his obliviousness, back to being happy and light the way he'd been for the past year and a half, being reassured that he was wanted unconditionally.

But he knew now, and there was no going back. He knew it was never  _him_  that Dean wanted.

**…**

From the moment Sam got into the car, quiet and subdued, Dean knew that something was wrong. Something to do with the shape-shifter. He was alone in there with the thing for a long enough time to have said something shitty and horribly fucking untrue to Sam. Sam was a boy still healing from a lifetime of emotional wounds, which meant there was a lot to pick on, and that bastard must have carved into them again to have made Sammy look this sad and confused. Dean was determined to find out what it was, what that thing said, to put that look on the kid's face.

He opened his mouth, ready to bombard him with questions, when Sam mumbled something over the low music thrumming from the cassette player, indistinct and incoherent, clearly directed at him even though he was not looking at him at all.

"What?" Dean asked, brows furrowed, hands on the wheel clenched tightly.

"Adam," Sam said, louder and clearer and seizing Dean's heart with that one name, causing him to almost swerve the car into a tree.

But he just pulled the car up at the side, turned the engine off and turned back to Sam.

"The shape-shifter told me," Sam said softly. "He's... was your brother."

Dean stayed silent, and Sam turned his head to him, seeking clarification.

"Yeah," Dean said, cleared his throat when it cracked. "Yeah, he was. He... he is, I guess. I mean, him being dead doesn't stop him from..."

Sam smiled a little, but it also seemed too brittle. He glanced down at his hands, smile falling away. He looked back up.

"Tell me about him."

And Dean did.

Dean told him about the things he liked; turkey sandwiches and banana milkshakes and salads, dogs and books and research. He told him about how smart he was, how he was a little shy at times, how kind. How much he cared for people. Dean told him about all the ways he was good, and Sam listened and thought that the shape-shifter was wrong. He was nothing like Adam, because Adam was good and Sam wasn't. Adam was smart and kind. Sam fucked up all the time and got everyone hurt or killed, and he wondered how Dean ever saw someone like Adam in someone like him.

He wondered how long it would be until Dean realized all these things and decided it wasn't worth sticking around.

**...**

"He hung himself," Dean told him that night, while they were lying in bed, and John was snoring away on the couch.

Sam froze at that, at the quiet confession, so suddenly in the silence. He couldn't deny that it was one of the things he had wanted to ask, but after hearing what Dean had said, he wasn't really sure he wanted to know anymore. Still, Sam knew it was important to Dean, and so he turned over onto his side, facing Dean wholly, and let him know that he had his undivided attention.

"He, uh... he never liked the life...y'know?" Dean muttered, staring at the ceiling. He never faced Sam. "He always tried to keep us together. Didn't like it when we left him behind for a hunt, or when Dad left us for weeks. Whenever he tried to come with us, we told him he was too young, that he had too much to learn. When he tried to make us stay, we always told him that people were dying, that he didn't understand."

Dean paused, inhaled a shaky breath, and it was only then that Sam found out how good he was at keeping his voice steady, because he barely realized that he was on the verge of breaking until now. "It'd... it'd always end in a fight. He'd tell us that we didn't care about what he wanted, and we'd tell him that he was being selfish. Never felt good the whole ride after and..." His voice broke, and when Sam knew that if he tried looking closer, he'd find a glint of tears in his eyes under the moonlight streaming in. "And god, he was sad. He was so sad. All the time. And I... I think I always knew... but I told myself he was okay, because it was easier to believe that than to deal with the fact that... that he wanted out of this life, this family. And I couldn't do that for him, because I wanted to keep him with me. Because  _I_  was the selfish one."

"It wasn't your fault," Sam said softly.

"I could have stopped it," Dean told him quietly, breathing hard, as if he was trying to stop himself from falling apart. "If I had… if I had tried to help him… instead of just telling him to suck it up."

"If you'd known, Dean," Sam argued. "Adam was… Adam was depressed, and this life became too much for him. It wasn't you. That wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault."

Sam heard a choked-off sob, and he knew Dean wasn't going to hold himself together tonight after speaking about possibly one of the most painful events of his life.

"My mom died in a fire. I carried him out of our burning house, and I took care of him since," Dean whispered, his voice trembling, his gaze distant. "I just... I didn't wanna lose him, but I lost him anyway. I should have done better."

Sam knew, in that moment, that no words would be big or comforting enough to make this better. He got up from his bed, crossed the three feet distance in-between until he stood over him. He quietly sat down beside him, hesitantly reached out and gripped his shoulder, unsure if it would be welcome, or if it would make Dean feel even more vulnerable and he'd push him away.

But Dean didn't say anything, didn't respond, but didn't move away either. Sam took that as permission, and pulled his legs up on the bed, leaned back against the headboard and placed his hand over Dean's head.

He closed his eyes, and he didn't open them, even after he felt a weight fall against his hip. And he tried not to think about the fact that none of this would last anymore, this deep ache in his heart for someone who mattered to him (that he wouldn't matter to after a while), the peace and safety in the silence and Dean's soft breathing against his leg and even John's loud snores from the couch. None of it would last, and he wouldn't let himself watch it end, wouldn't watch Dean realize that Sam was not the little brother he loved and Sam was just worthless, stupid Sam and that he wasn't good enough to keep around anymore.

He thought of all the things his father and Rick used to say, that nobody could want him, that he should consider himself lucky that they even tried to keep him, and wondered if they were right all along.

**…**

Dean didn't miss the dark shadows under Sam's eyes, didn't miss the sound of rustling sheets every night, the quieter voice and the wavering gaze (right back to square one) and the fact that it had all started ever since Sam found out about Adam.

He didn't know how to approach the issue, still felt pained at the mere mention or thought of Adam, still a little ashamed at his breakdown a week ago.

He cleaned the guns on his bed and watched Sam from the corner of his eye. Sam was reading one of those books that Bobby gave him, a whole stack of them that Dean still remembered his blinding grin at.

Except he had been reading the same page for the past half an hour.

"So, uh…" Dean started, seeing a slight jerk in his peripheral vision of the indistinct shape that was Sam, wiping the gunpowder out of the gun. "Must be a real good page you're reading. Y'know, considering you haven't been able to take your eyes off of it for the last thirty minutes."

"Yeah, just, uh… just thinking," he mumbled, which Dean barely understood from such a distance.

"About what?"

"Nothing."

"Thinking about nothing? Alright. Don't know how that works, but alright."

That got a small smile out of Sam. Dean sighed, abandoned his task and stood up. "Sam," he said, moving to sit on the foot of his bed. "You're not sleeping. You're barely eating. Your face looks like you've just lost your puppy. All typical signs of Sam in Emotional Crisis. What's going on with you?"

"Just one of those times," Sam replied quietly, shrugging, his thumb flicking at the corner of his page.

Dean's eyes softened. "You remembering them again?"

"I… something like that, I guess," Sam said, eyes hidden down with his ducked head, lips pursed, as if he was holding something back.

Then he sighed, slowly closed the book and straightened up from the headboard. His palms pushed down on the bed as he scooted forward, and then brought them back in front of him. He tangled them together and stared at them, hovering over his crossed legs.

For a while, Dean just stared at him, not sure what he was really waiting for. Sam just sat there, seemingly preparing himself for something.

Then he pulled his head up, looked him right in the eye with a heaving breath, his own eyes wide and drooping with sadness and a small smile desperately trying not to show it. And there was that gratitude again, the one he saw when they celebrated his birthday in 2000 and when he taught him how to drive.

"Thank you," he said softly. Dean was going to ask  _for what_ , but Sam continued before he could. "For taking me in. For, uh… listening. Helping me. T-telling me that I… I'm not what they told me I was."

The room was silent, and Dean thought about how there was something in the way he spoke, in his words, the emotions on his face, a sense that Dean couldn't put his finger on. It wasn't a good sense, but he forced a smile anyway and messed up his hair, then reached out an arm to wrap it around his neck and pull him into a headlock. Sam laughed as Dean rubbed his head with his knuckles, his own fists coming up to shove at Dean's fists, and then Dean just held him close with his cheek against his shoulder and sat quietly and realized with a cold jolt that that  _something_ was that it sounded a hell of a lot more like a goodbye than a thank you.

**…**

Sam had made up his mind.

He knew it was stupid, making assumptions about what could be and leaving the best thing in his life behind based on it, thinking of the worst. But here, the worst was something that he wasn't sure he could bear, because even the thought of it made him feel like he was dying. He didn't know if he'd be able to take it, to keep himself together, if it came to happen in reality.

And the truth is, he couldn't see anything else happen.

And that was why he had to leave before he saw it. It was cowardly, running away from it the way he was, but he couldn't see that look in Dean's eyes, the same way his family once looked at him, like he was nothing. Or worse, like he was just trying to tolerate him after realizing the truth. Whatever Dean felt for him, that illusion of a bond between them, it was fragile, balancing on thin glass, and the moment it slipped, it'd be gone, because Sam was not Adam, and he would never be (never be as good as him), and there was something pitiful about his priorities, how he felt sad about  _that_ , that he couldn't be who he wanted him to be, more than anything else.

He glanced over at John snoring on the ragged, small couch, the man who had accepted him regardless of their fall-outs, despite his causing so many issues for him, let him come on hunts with them even after his first impression on him and had saved his life like he saved Dean's many times (maybe more out of virtue and righteousness than anything else, but still) throughout these years and even began smiling at him the way Dean did for the past one.

He watched Dean breathe in the hushed night, chest rising and falling, and a burn of longing washed over in his veins, remembering the serenity and security he had always felt with him, everything he had gotten to feel that he had never felt before. He moved towards him slowly, bag slung over his shoulder, lightly knelt down so that he didn't make a sound. He put a hand tenderly on Dean's head, fingers in his blonde hair, hoping he wouldn't wake him.

"Thank you again," he whispered. That was the best thing he could say, because everything Dean had given him in all these months, it was too big to put into words. "For everything."

He stood up, turned and strolled off to the door before he could change his mind. He pulled it open, and with one last look at the only place that had ever felt like home (hunting with John, at Dean's side, in the passenger seat with him as they drove past the world), he walked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credits to ktdog1 (from fanfic) for the shape-shifter idea, which was also a good place to reveal about Adam.


	16. Chapter 16

Dean opened his eyes to a pit of  _wrong_  in his stomach, a made bed in the dark (the first lights of the day dawning only just now) and two duffel bags on the ground rather than three.

And he knew.

He breathed in softly, sadly. He had wanted to believe that it was only his imagination, had wanted to believe that what he had heard that day in Sam's voice was not what it sounded like. He fell into that same denial that had let him not see how much Adam was suffering, and he knew where that got him.

But he wasn't going to let something bad happen again. Not to Sam. He wasn't going to let him go out on him like this.

**…**

John woke up to find both of the beds empty. One made and the other untidy and all over, as if left in a hurry. One missing duffel bag out of the three by the wall. Dean had told him about Sam finding out about Adam by the shape-shifter, and putting two and two together, realized Sam had left and Dean, naturally, went after him.

He wasn't sure what it really was about Adam that made Sam like this, that made him look as sad and distant in thought as he had been seeing him look the past week. Maybe a sense of insecurity about his place in Dean's life? Maybe feeling as if he was only there to fill that empty spot in it?

John didn't get much time to dwell on it as his phone rang, Dean's name flashing on the screen. He reached for it quickly and answered.

"Dean?"

"Dad! Sam's been taken. His… his bag's here, and… and oh god, there's blood," Dean said frantically, his breaths short on the other end.

"Calm down, Dean," John said. "We'll find him."

"It's gotta be that bastard again," Dean said, voice shaking with fear as well as anger, talking more to himself than John. "Fuck… he's gotta be out by now."

"Who?" John asked, even though he realized, just as the question came out, that he already knew whose name Dean was going to say.

"Rick."

**…**

Sam's head pounded when he came to, weighing like lead on his lolling neck as he struggled to raise it up, his mind fuzzy and hazed with confusion. When he tried to reach his hand up to the throbbing spot, he found that he couldn't move, his wrists bounded to a chair. His eyes opened, his vision swimming and blurred, and he blinked fast, the muscles in his forehead stuck in a furrow.

"Welcome back,  _little brother_ ," a voice sneered, mocking and angry.

Sam's blood froze, trepidation blossoming from the pit of his stomach. He recognized that voice easily, remembered all the words that he heard in it.

"Rick," Sam said softly.

The man in question came slowly around the chair, half-circling around him predatorily, until Sam could see his torso right in front of him, and he didn't dare lift his head up, to look him in the eyes (eyes that looked at him like he was either the most despicable thing or like he was nothing at all) and aggravate his throbbing headache with movement (not that this carefulness would matter, because what Rick would do to him would make it worse anyway). Rick crouched, and Sam's eyes darted briefly up at his face, close enough that he could feel his breaths against his own as he saw him for the first time in a long while, which was enough to gauge his appearance. There were shadows under his eyes, and his face was twisted into a slight sneer, his olive eyes aflame with malevolence and hatred.

But Sam could hear the cold smile in his voice when he spoke. "So. Didn't think you'd see me again, did you?"

Sam remained silent, trying to focus on the pain pounding at his temple rather than the memories struggling to break out of the dark corner he locked them up in, rather than the ice in his veins and the hammering of his heart.

And then his head snapped back, sharp pain blossoming from his cheek to his head, his headache raging up as he had expected it would. He gasped, chest heaving, feeling like nothing was real anymore. His vision was too sharp, lights too bright, colors too dull (couldn't believe he was back here with  _him_ ), and he felt a throbbing pull at his scalp as a fist tightened in it, tugging his head up to Rick's spiteful face.

"What's the matter, Sammy-boy? Cat got your tongue?" Rick mocked, a baleful half-smile and half-sneer curling at his features.

Sam didn't know what to say, didn't know how to respond, because whatever he said could either be taken the wrong way or not be a good enough answer. He was still hoping he would wake up and this would all just be a terrible dream, and Dean would still be sleeping in the bed beside his, and all he'd have to do was reach out to him in the three feet distance between them so that he could hear him say that he was safe, that he was just dreaming, that he was okay.

The next blow sent the chair sideways to the ground.

**…**

"Where the fuck are we going, Dad? We have to find Sam!" Dean hissed impatiently from the passenger seat of the Impala, something he'd never do with John if he were in his right mind, which showed just how much this situation was having an effect on him.

They had returned to the motel, packed all their bags and left as soon as they could, Dean following whatever John was doing with a completely confused expression on his face, asking questions with an air of tightly-controlled frustration (until this moment, that was). John had deemed Dean unfit to drive on his own considering his current state of mind. He had called Bobby to tow his truck after explaining the situation to him ("Goddamnit, boy," he had murmured sadly). Dean was ready to fight him on it out of indignation until he said it was an order. Dean had backed down, still fuming silently, but didn't argue further, and John wondered if the word 'order' was some kind of a trigger, and if it was, whether he should be grateful for it or feel terrible about it.

"That's what we're doing," John said calmly, keeping his own surge of irritation down.

"How is driving out of the very town he was taken from going to help find him?" Dean snapped.

"There's a guy, friend of a friend's, only about an hour from here," John answered. "A little cracked in the head at times, but he's good with computers. Been a good help with hunts before. His name's Ash. He might be able to find a way to track him down."

Dean breathed out softly and leaned back, all anger draining out of his features. One glance at him showed that he just looked tired and worried, eyes drooping sadly as he turned his head towards the window.

John sighed, staring up ahead at the road before them, hoping that they'd find Sam soon. The kid had really grown on him, and Dean couldn't afford to lose him too. Not after having lost a brother already.

**…**

Sam's nose bled, the side of his mouth, his jaw and his cheek swelling up. His ribs and stomach ached, still feeling the phantom collisions of a boot against his body. There were tears involuntarily streaming down his cheeks, eyes clenched shut, sobs frantically restrained in his throat and chest until he couldn't breathe. He took a deep breath, trying not to choke on the lump in his throat, and expelled it in a shaky exhale, his face hidden under his bangs, bowed down towards his knees awkwardly as his hands were still held to the arms of the fallen chair.

A knee came into his peripheral vision, one elbow hanging casually off of it. Sam didn't dare look up.

"Did little Sammy actually toughen up the past few years I've been gone?" Rick taunted, mock-surprised. "Not a sound from you? Well, not yet anyway."

Rick stood up, the light scruff of boot against the stone ground. He walked off, and after a while, came back with something hanging off his hands.

Sam looked up through his bangs tentatively, face twisted in pain.

And there, clutched in his fingers, was the leather belt that he had always feared most.

**…**

They parked outside a place called Harvelle's Roadhouse, flashing in red and white neon. Dean still wasn't sure if this was going to be much help, and if it wasn't, then that was an hour wasted. One hour of Sam probably getting hurt somewhere out there from that bastard he called a brother.

But he trusted his father. John wasn't the kind to take bullshit, so if he said Ash was good, then Dean had to believe Ash was good.

They both got out of the car and walked towards the bar.

When they walked in, they were immediately hit with warm air and the scent of alcohol, low music playing somewhere distant. But maybe that was just Dean, just Dean not being able to notice anything except the clench of fear with every minute that went by and the flashing horror thoughts across his mind of Sam being beaten and scared again.

They stopped at the counter where drinks were being served by two petite women, one young and blonde and the other older and brunette. Dean would have flirted with the blonde one if it was a normal day, but it wasn't, because Sam wasn't there with him, safe and okay and rolling his eyes with a hint of a smile.

"Look what the cat dragged in," the brunette one said with a grin. "John Winchester. It's been a while, hasn't it?" John nodded with a 'good to see you, Ellen' and a returning smile. She craned her head to the side at Dean. "And you must be the infamous Dean Winchester. Heard a lot about you from your daddy. I'm Ellen Harvelle." She reached out a hand across the counter.

Dean's eyebrows raised at that as he grasped her smaller one in a handshake (she had a pretty firm one, and something told him she wasn't to be messed with), glancing at his father, who was oblivious to his surprise. His father talked about him to others? What did he say?

"All good things, I hope," Dean replied, throwing in a charming smile along with it.

"Definitely," Ellen said. "Talks a lot about how proud he is of you."

John seemed to have a hard time meeting anyone's eyes at that moment, and Dean couldn't help a soft smile, his heart beaming at the revelation.

But his smile faded when he realized something. Ellen wasn't mentioning Adam at all, like he didn't even exist. He wondered if his dad even told her about him, which would depend on when they met, whether that was before or after what had happened. John wasn't the kind of person to be sharing his personal losses to others too easily.

Not for the first time, he marveled at how he still felt smothered from his grief whenever he let himself think about Adam too clearly, even after eight years.

He caught Ellen's eye in that moment, and noticed a quiet, sad droop in her eyes as her gaze slid from him to John, and Dean knew that she knew but wasn't bringing it up, for which he was thankful. He glanced at John, who was watching Ellen and the blonde girl serving to a couple of customers off to the side, and he had his own look in his eyes, but it wasn't sadness that he would often see whenever something reminded him of his lost son. It was unfathomable, but Dean thought that it almost looked like remorse.

**…**

May 16, 1995 was the day William Anthony Harvelle died while on a hunt with John. He remembered that day, remembered that Hellspawn possessing Bill, and he remembered how he tried to fight it as he writhed and writhed, two voices coming out of his mouth, one of the monster's speaking in a foreign language, the other his own, begging John to shoot him. John wasn't going to, he wasn't. He didn't want to. But Bill was in too much pain (he still remembered the suffocating agony that ripped through in his voice, in his rigid muscles), and he was losing control, and then the next thing he knew, the bullet was fired, the gun smoking. He regretted it the moment he did it, knew that it was reckless and stupid, knew that he left Jo, Ellen's daughter, fatherless, all because of his own idiocy.

Ellen, understandably, blamed him. Eyes red and tears streaming down her face, she threatened him out the door with her shotgun when he went to tell her about her husband's death, said if he ever showed his face again, she'd shoot him in the worst places there were. So he turned and he walked out and he never came back. He never heard from her again, and he never tried to keep in touch with her.

But then… then Adam died. His baby boy. And news traveled fast in the hunting community. She got wind of it, and that was the first time he heard from her in a year. They weren't exactly the same way they were before. There was always a barricade between them, something tense and keeping them from being completely easy with one another, but there was a mutual understanding between them, the kind that only the dearest losses could bring.

"Ash here?" John asked, deciding the best thing would be to go straight to the point. He had a very familiar urge, every time he saw her, to somehow make it up to her for his actions eight years ago, but he knew that it wouldn't do any good. Would probably make things even worse to bring the past up now.

She pointed the way to a door with "DR. BADASS IS: IN" written on it. John glanced at Dean, who suddenly didn't look too sure about the guy.

**…**

Ash was a dude with a mullet.

A  _mullet_.

"Business up front," he said proudly, brushing a hand up his fringe, then flipping his mullet. "Party in the back."

Beside him, Dean could feel John judging him silently.

"We need you to track a guy down…"

**…**

So as it turned out, Dean underestimated him a little too quickly.

After a few details were given (and after flirting a little with the blonde girl, Jo, as a way to forget some of his anxieties and getting a death glare from her mother), Ash managed to narrow down the location and track Rick down to an area in a town called Littleton from Colorado. That was the good news. The bad news was that it'd take them five hours to get there. Four if they hurry, hopefully.

Dean wasn't sure if they could afford that time, considering how it had already been almost three hours since they've only found out about Sam's abduction. But they didn't know how long Rick had really had him, and he didn't know what condition Sam might be in right now, and he didn't know how much worse it would be by the time they reached him.

**…**

Sam trembled on the ground, now untied from the chair, wrists chained instead for a better angle at his body. His wet, flushed face was scrunched up and sweaty, teeth grinded hard as his back and sides burned with bone-deep agony that went up to his fingers and toes. He felt small and pathetic and ashamed of himself, because he broke. He finally broke, just like Rick said he would, but it had been going on for so long, and it hurt so bad. God, it hurt so bad that he thought he might pass out or throw up.

He curled up tightly, gasping and sobbing. He was sure a few of his ribs were cracked from all the kicks, and he could barely breathe from the pain. He was used to injuries such as these, considering his line of work and the life he had lived. Cracked ribs and deep bruises weren't anything new, but it was easier in hunting. Quick. A monster flinging him hard into a wall, a ghost throwing him against a headstone, some punches from a shape-shifter or a rugaru here and there.

But this was slow, torturous, wounds deepening more and more with every blow, a slice of pain over an already-present throb.

"Alright," Rick said, hearing him step back. He sounded out of breath, but there was a sick, entertained smile in his voice. "We'll take a break."

Footsteps faded, and then a distant sound, a twist of plastic against plastic. Sam shakily lifted his gaze up to see him drinking down a bottle of water, which brutally brought attention to his own dry mouth, though he knew there was no point saying anything about it.

Rick returned, pulling up another chair in front of them, straddling it casually. The chair Sam was tied to was still fallen, one of the legs broken.

Sam swallowed, clenching his eyes shut. He didn't know what Rick was going to do now. He said he was going to take a break, but him coming back here couldn't mean anything good.

"So, the duffel bag…" Rick said, sounding conversational. "What happened, Sammy-boy? Did he not want you anymore? Kick you out on your ass?"

Sam didn't answer. Rick's boot collided hard into his ribs again, and he whimpered.

"Answer me when I'm talking to you," Rick commanded coldly.

Sam swallowed hard again, trying to breathe.

"N-No," he mumbled, sucking a gulpful of air, pained tears falling down his cheeks. "I l-left."

Rick chuckled. "Finally realized that nobody could tolerate you the way I can?"

"Y-you never t-tolerated me," Sam said quietly, the note of bitter defiance overshadowed by his uncontrollable stutters and the gurgles from the blood in his mouth, try as he might to talk smoothly and clearly. He could hear Rick mutter something sounding very similar to 'retard', which sent a flush of embarrassment up at his cheeks, and he determinedly ignored the shame and humiliation coiling inside of him. "And he was - was g-good t'me. H-he cared abou' m-me."  _But that wouldn't have lasted long._

"Right. If that was true, then why did you leave him? Come on, something must have happened. You wouldn't walk out on a guy who smiled so nicely at you, considering what a needy bitch you are."

Sam closed his eyes.

_"…already has a brother, didn't you know? He doesn't need another one. He doesn't need you."_

_"…reminds him of his real little brother."_

_"…when he finally sees through that illusion? Sees that you're not Adam? Will he feel bad for you, suffer your existence? Will he get sick of you and kick you out? This liability that he picked off some dirty carpet under the delusion that you were just like beloved little Adam?"_

"They all leave in the end, Sam. Nobody's ever gonna want you, and nobody's ever gonna keep you for as long as I have. When you gonna get that?"

"Dean's a b-better brother than - than you eve' w're," Sam said, words still thick from blood and pain still stabbing every inch of his body. He didn't really know where that came from, where the courage to say it to his face did.

Rick stilled at that, and if Sam didn't know any better, he'd have thought he was stunned at his response.

Then he chuckled, something dark in it. Then he looked off to the side, and laughed, shaking his head.

"And what'd he ever do for you?"

And Sam blinked back tears, feeling a pit deep in the centre of his heart. Here was a man who had loved him more than anyone ever had, and Sam left him, was never going to see him again, just because he was terrified to watch him leave him himself. He could say so many things to that. So many (even though he would never say it to Rick because somebody like him could never understand somebody like Dean). Dean had done so much for him, more than he could manage to put into words. He could list off the way he saved his life in every sense, how he made it so much better, so much more worthwhile and meaningful, just by being there by his side, how he watched movies with him and joked around with him and ruffled his hair and held him when he was sad or scared. But how could he explain the things he made him feel without making it small? The worthiness, the love, the purposefulness.

He remembered Dean, and the way he looked at him, like he meant something, something more than he ever believed he could. He remembered the way he smiled at him, and the softness in his green eyes, the playful glint in them when he teased him, the pinched brows over them when he was worried about him, and Sam wondered if he was seeing a brother who was already long gone instead of him. But he let himself believe, just for a moment, that it was all for him, and those memories pushed him, gave him a heat of strength in his stomach that he didn't know he could muster in front of the man who had abused him for the other half of his life.

He slowly forced himself up on his knees and elbows, body trembling and weak under its own weight. "He t-taught me that you were wr-wrong," Sam said, with a power that came through from recollections of  _Dean_  and the love he gave him that Sam never truly deserved, blood dribbling out of his mouth, as he looked him in the eye. He was worthless, but there was somebody who had wanted him anyway ( _even if not for forever_ ). "You and Dad."

Rick didn't say anything for a long while after, icy olive eyes staring at him without reaction.

And then he slowly stood up, wiped his hands on his jeans.

"I think the break's gone on a little too long, don't you?"

  


 


	17. Chapter 17

"Drive faster," Dean demanded.

"I'm going as fast as I can without swerving off into a fucking tree," John forced out through gritted teeth.

"Sam's being hurt right now, Dad!" Dean yelled. "I know you don't fucking like him all that much, but -"

"Now wait the fuck a minute!" John yelled back. "Just because I'm not in too much of a hurry to get into a car crash doesn't mean I don't give a damn about the kid's life, alright?! I  _know_. I know what that bastard's capable of doing without a shred of remorse. You don't think I was there the first few days when you brought him in?"

"Well, you were more worried about Rick being on our ass than you were about Sam!"

John went silent, rubbing a hand down his face.

Dean took a deep breath, and fell into the silence too. After a while, he realized how irrational he was being, accusing his Dad of not caring about Sam just because he wasn't driving as fast as Dean wanted him to (he wouldn't be with him, looking for him just as hard, if he didn't. He noticed his Dad growing softer towards Sam the past year). He was terrified that he'd be too late, and so he was trying to race time, thinking that the faster they drove, the less chances there were of finding Sam -

But then, having a car accident wasn't going to make them get there any faster either.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Dean said.

John didn't reply, and Dean thought that he was in for a long and awkward car ride under his father's silent treatment.

"I'm trying my best here, Dean," John said wearily. "Sam's a good kid, and as long as he's not…"

"He's not," Dean answered quickly, remembering his odd and agitated behavior towards Sam initially, only to discover that it was disguised fear that Dean was replacing Adam.

"I know that. I don't have any issues with him anymore. If anything, he's… he's growin' on me too."

**…**

Rick grabbed his hair callously and hauled him up, and the sudden, harsh movement had him double over, an anguished gasp ripping out of his throat as his entire body flared up with white-hot agony.

But he knew this was his only chance. He didn't know if it would work, but he had to try. Whether he did or didn't, he was going to get beaten or killed anyway.

He knew Rick had no intention of keeping him alive. He had said it himself, said he was going to kill him, and then he was 'going to go after his friends' (but even if that troubled Sam, he knew Dean and John and Bobby were able to hold their own). If this really was where it'd end, the thought of not getting to say goodbye to Bobby and Dean, and even John, made his heart scrunch up with sorrow.

That fear and that need, to see them all again one more time (and then he'd leave, he promised to himself. He'd leave forever, never bother them again) gave him a heat of strength, exploding from his stomach to his chest, the way those memories of Dean did before, a strong sense of adrenaline that pumped energy into his muscles and made his heart pound and made all of the burning wounds on his body nothing but a dull throb in the back of his mind, and as soon as Rick had pushed him down on the chair he had been occupying about two hours ago (mocking him about Dean), leaning down to unchain one of his hands, he launched.

His head jerked forward, colliding hard into Rick's nose. A crack reverberated between the walls along with an angry scream, and blood spurted out into Rick's hands as he tripped back a few steps. Sam's hand shot out towards the waistband of Rick's jeans, and the next thing he knew, Rick was clutching his face, involuntary tears of pain in his eyes, and he was down on the ground on his ass with a boot print on his shirt while Sam stood over him, a gun in his hand pointed at him, index finger on the trigger.

"You little bitch!" Rick yelled, thick and muffled into his palm, panting.

Sam thought of those words being shouted at him, and all of those other words that his father had once hurled at him, that Rick had too. Worthless. Bastard. Murderer. Useless. Lazy. Stupid. Weak. Burden. Fuck-up. Selfish (because he didn't want to hunt, didn't want to screw it up and get punished even more for it when he couldn't even move straight because his body hurt too much).  _Nobody could ever want you, boy_. And maybe, for the very first time in his life, he wasn't terrified or hurt, thinking about it. He was angry, hot lava coursing through his veins, piling up in his chest, the lights sharper and the world so vivid, and yet, so surreal.

Because he was the strong one, for the first time in his life, not the helpless one, the one on the ground. Rick was.  _He_  was the shadow looming over him, the one with all the power, his own life (he didn't have to be afraid of it all going too far some day) and Rick's life in  _his_  hands.

"You can't," Rick whispered, his bloodied grin as mocking as his tone. "You're too weak."

_Weak_.

He wanted to show him, wanted to pull the trigger so he could show him how he wasn't weak, and his finger tightened slightly. God, it'd be so easy. It'd be over. He wouldn't have to live in fear anymore, wouldn't have to wake up in the middle of the night from the nightmares of him coming back and getting him, knowing that as long as he was out there, it had the possibility of not being just a dream some day.

It was all he wanted to do, more than anything, in that moment. He wanted to pull that trigger, to have him just  _gone_ , to have that peace and that freedom he had always longed for and never had, that trapping feeling of impossibility, of imagining it and feeling stupid because how could it ever happen? But now… he had tasted it now, with Dean and John and Bobby, and he wanted more of it, wanted it forever.

And that couldn't happen, not wholly and completely, as long as the man in front of him was alive.

_I could do it._

Sam swallowed hard, hand beginning to tremble, his finger aching to press down on the trigger, and yet, something holding it back. His eyes were wet, nose stinging red, his jaw clenched tight, and he couldn't couldn't  _couldn't_  stop thinking about freedom and peace and  _no fear_  and everything they've done to him and everything Dean had done for him and Dean's eyes filling with disappointment when he'd tell him what he did-

_He doesn't have to know._

_It'd be so easy. So easy._

_It'd be over. I won't have to be afraid anymore._

_I could do it._

_I could._

_I could I could I could-_

"You don't ever come after me," Sam said, breathing hard through his gritted teeth. He swallowed, lips trembling, tears firmly held back as he shifted on his foot. "You don't come after Dean or John or Bobby. You do that, and I will kill you, I swear to God… if I see you again, I will kill you right where you stand."

Rick laughed somberly, his bloodied hand now on the ground, leaning back on his arms, looking almost relaxed, like he knew all along that Sam was too weak, wouldn't be able to do it.

He was. He was weak, because he wouldn't let Dean down, even for his own peace and safety. There was something pitiful about his priorities, indeed.

"I told you," Rick said, smirking, self-satisfied.

Sam put his arm down, sucking in a deep breath, biting his lip.

He turned around and limped towards the door, hand still gripped tightly around the gun, but his shoulders were tense and alarmed, his instincts screaming at him to not turn his back on Rick. He knew he couldn't depend on Rick listening to him, leaving him and the ones he loved alone. He wasn't stupid, but he still hoped that Rick wouldn't try anything too soon, wouldn't try anything now when there was a gun in his hand.

But then…

A swift rustle and an accidental clink as metal rubbed against fabric, scruff of boots and his back instinctually tingling from the danger behind him -

And Sam didn't think, his body moving before he even could. He spun around, and from one second to the next, he found himself standing over a fallen body on its back, eyes wide and a smoking gun in his hand (Rick's eyes wide too, head bloodied and smoking too), echoes of a fired bullet ringing in his ears. He stared down at Rick, a knife loose in his hand, a hole in his forehead, mouth agape with shock and staring far-off into a place beyond this world.

Dean's face filled his mind, his eyes pinched with disappointment.  _He doesn't have to know_.

The next thing that came was the full brunt of agony in his body, colliding and burning in every nerve of it, pushed back from the forefront of his mind by the adrenaline, which was finally leaving him, sapping him of all the energy and vigor that had saved his life.

And maybe, also destroyed it.

Dean's face, sad and  _so_  fucking disappointed, was still there, in the front of his mind, his heart swelling up like a throbbing bruise, and he felt sick (murderer. He was a murderer. His mother and now his brother). The pain of it crashed along with the pain in his back and sides and torso and face, feeling hot and cold and light-headed as everything around him spun, and the world tilted on its axis and went black.

**…**

When they entered the small abandoned warehouse, the first thing that caught their eye were two bodies lying on the ground, one lying in a pool of blood around its head and the other crumpled on its side, curled up loosely, long brown hair curtaining his face.

"Oh god," Dean murmured frantically, rushing forward to Sam. John followed, putting away his gun. They spared a glance at Rick, saw the bullet in his head, and turned back to Sam.

"Is he…" John started. Dean's finger was on Sam's neck, breaths held, waiting, until his hand fell off slowly, exhaling shakily in relief.

"He has a pulse," Dean said softly, his hand coming up to slide into Sam's hair. He reached out his other hand to turn his face towards him, Sam's messy locks falling away.

John saw the second Dean's brain registered the gruesome wounds, brief shock transforming into a twisted snarl of fury, his jaw tight and nose flared. Both of Sam's eyes were a swollen, deep purple as well as the sides of his mouth, his cut cheeks and his jaws and temples a multitude of colors, his nose bleeding heavily over his split, red-stained lips. Dean glanced at Rick's corpse over his shoulder, glaring as if he wanted to resurrect him and kill him himself. But he turned back to Sam and swallowed down whatever anger he had, grasping the hem of his shirt and gently lifting it up.

That didn't help him keep his anger down at all.

Dean's eyes widened, and his other hand curled into a fist along with the one scrunching up the bottom of Sam's shirt, white and shaking. "Fuck, that bastard!" Dean yelled, jumping up on his feet.

"We have to get Sam patched up, Dean," John said. "You can get pissed at Rick's dead body later."

**…**

When Sam woke up, dazed and muddled and only just on the rim of consciousness, it was to a soothing pressure against his side (careful against the throbbing, and he couldn't remember why he was so sore) and a gentle hand running over and over through his hair, his ribs and abdomen feeling slightly tight with something wrapped around it. He felt light and warm, and he wanted to go back to sleep like this, wanted to be like this forever, his heart soft and full with serenity and safety and  _home_.

Dean.

Dean was the only one who made him feel like that.

But something didn't feel right. The ache in his muscles that he couldn't remember where it came from, that sense of an unfathomable sense of  _wrong_ , almost like guilt, in his mind (about what?), how there was a blank gap in his memories when he tried to remember where he was or what he was doing the last time he was awake, how he got here in Dean's arms in the backseat of a moving car (the roaring and bumping and the slight vibrations).

Then it came to him, in hazy, fragmented pieces of images and words and a voice that gripped his heart in fear. And then all at once.

_"Kick you out on your ass?"_

"… _considering what a needy bitch you are._ "

_Adam. Leaving. Pain exploding in his head. Rick. Fists on flesh and whipping belts and taunting words. His head connecting with a nose._

_"You little bitch!"_

_I could do it so easy over he doesn't have to know I could_

_"You're too weak."_

_A loud explosion of a firing gun._

Sam tried to hold in a sob, the effort of which resulted into something strangled and sad anyway, the billow of guilt and shame and unworthiness washing over him. Some part of him knew that there wasn't anything he could have done, that it was self-defense and survival instincts and he didn't even realize  _when_  he had pulled the trigger, but the rest of him told him that it didn't matter, because he was still a murderer, and Dean was still going to find out, and he was still going to be disappointed in him because he could not be as kind and good and clever as Adam was. He could have been smarter, quicker, could have turned around and fought him off or not turned his back on him at all instead of shooting him in the head.

The warm body against him tensed up at the distressed, restrained sound, the motions through his hair stilling.

And then he was being hauled away, hands scrabbling over his shoulders and face. A pained groan ripped out of his throat as they pushed and pulled against him to sit him up straight, his body still heavy and exhausted, still burning and aching from all the collisions and blows it had suffered. Dean seemed oblivious to his agony, his fingers coming to clutch his shoulder to hold him up, his other hand grasping his jaw tenderly.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, eyes wide with hope, and then closing with relief as he saw Sam's half-mast eyes struggling to open fully, blinking hard. His hand moved over from his jaw to the side of his neck. "Hey, kiddo. Finally awake, huh?"

Dean didn't ask him how he felt, because having been beaten within an inch of his life made the answer too obvious. Sam wondered if he had seen Rick's dead body and the gun in his hand, then why didn't he look upset that he couldn't do better?

"I killed him," Sam whispered, swallowing. He didn't know why he had to say it, but it made it real and it made him realize that John was in the driver's seat and he could probably hear him, and it made him wish that he hadn't said anything because the longer he didn't let them think about it, the better. But then he realized how stupid that was, because they probably had enough time to think about it anyway during his nap.

But Dean didn't look at Sam like he was a failure, like he had finally realized the truth.

"He had it coming," Dean said it softly, just like that. He squeezed the side of his neck lightly, and Sam was confused and dumbfounded, his eyebrows furrowed, not having expected such a response.

"I could have done better…"

"You did what you could. It wasn't your fault," Dean replied, this time firmly, looking at him hard. There was no room for argument in his voice, no trying to convince him otherwise, the end of conversation. Sam swallowed, and reluctantly nodded, leaving it there with a deep, remorseful inhale, relieved as he was that Dean didn't reject him or find him faulty. Dean pulled him back in, and Sam went into his arms gratefully and limply, his muscles pliant and too tired. He was warm and safe and content, a strong, rhythmic heartbeat thudding soothingly in his ears, and he thought he could go back to sleep like this.

Just as he was about to, floating on the edge of sleep where he had only the vaguest awareness of the nonsensical and odd images playing in his mind, his attention was jerked back into the living world by Dean's voice.

"Why'd you leave?" Dean asked quietly, and Sam's heart tightened at the bare note of sorrow in his voice, as carefully as he seemed to have tried to hide it.

Sam exhaled diminutively, shifting his head. He didn't know how to answer that, not without sounding stupid or selfish. He considered making something up, but his brain was too tired to think too hard, and his chest was sick and aching, and he didn't know if it was the pain in his body or fatigue or the emotions from what had happened on top of everything else, but he felt his eyes burn and burst from the heaviness behind them, his vision blurry and swarming in front of him, and the words tumbled out in a tight, shaky flow without his being able to stop them, like water from his mouth.

"Because I was scared," he whispered, breathing tremulously as his lip quivered. He breathed deeply. "There was somebody you wanted me to be, and he was better than I could ever even try to be, and some day you were going to realize that… that I'm not him, and I could never be as good as him, and it… the shape-shifter… it said you were going to leave when you found that out, and my dad and Rick, they always told me that - that nobody was ever going to want me, and I believed them for a long time until you came and I thought I left that behind but then after that hunt it made sense that it wasn't me you ever wanted and I c-couldn't watch you - and I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I-I know I'm being selfish. I'm so sorry. You lost your brother, and I'm…" He huffed mirthlessly, loathing himself. "And I'm worrying about myself. God, they were right all along, weren't they? They were always right, always, always -"

He tried to shove himself away from Dean (he doubted he'd want to be this close to him after that) but found that he was trapped beneath his arms, and found that even after getting so worked up during his rambling confession, he was still beaten, his eyes heavy and begging for darkness and rest, his gaze crossing over as his body seemed to want to fall through Dean, shaking with sorrow and desperately controlled tears.

"Man, I had no idea you – I wish you'd told me," Dean's soft voice wafted above him, rumbling in his chest against Sam's ear. "so that I could have told you what bullshit that all was. God, Sam, you don't need to be anyone else for me to keep you around. You're already good as you are. You're already wanted, and that's not going to change. They were wrong, Sammy. I told you this before, and I'll tell you this again. They. Were  _wrong_. About everything. You're not selfish. Far from. You're good, okay? You're good and smart and  _enough_." Sam swallowed down a choked sob, Dean's shirt dampening, and he heard a sad sigh that told him that Dean had already heard how hard he was trying to keep it together. Dean's arms tightened around him, one hand coming up to push through his hair. "I'm not going to leave you. There's nothing to realize, kiddo. I'm not going to leave you, and for god's sakes, you better return that favor because you scared the hell out of me. It's okay, Sammy. It's okay…"

Sam closed his eyes, sniffing a long inhale in.

"We good now?" Dean asked, squeezing him lightly.

Sam nodded, but he wasn't sure if Dean could feel it, so he said, "yeah…" which came out more as an indistinct, slurred mumble. He wanted to think about Dean's words, wanted to remember each and every one of them and hold on to them for the rainy days when he'd doubt everything about himself.

But his eyes kept slipping shut, his mind drifting towards dreams and away from reality. His body still ached, but his heart was lighter than before (there was no shadow cast over the back of his mind, of fear and anticipation of everything falling apart), feeling whole and grounded by the fingers brushing through his hair and the steady, thundering car under them that was as much of a home as the person whose heart was beating under his ear.

In the last dredges of delirious awareness, he found himself thinking about Adam for some reason, an imprecise, formless face with only vague details of blonde hair and bright green eyes from Dean's descriptions of him, and he wondered if he was looking down at his big brother from the heavens, and what he thought of Sam, and if he was waiting for Dean and whether he was happy up there or not (he hoped he was). He wondered if he had ever thought about how lucky he was when he was alive, being given Dean as a brother to take care of him and look out for him, like Sam did now ( _every day_ , he thinks to that.  _Every single day_.  _Always_ ).

_Brother_.

But Sam wasn't really his brother, was he? He wished he was. He wished he was Dean's brother too.

"You are," a soft whisper breezed over the top of his head, and Sam's mind jerked back briefly into the living world. He didn't even notice he had said that out loud.

He mumbled back something, something about not being Adam. He didn't know what he exactly said, and with how worn out and incapable he was of moving his mouth too much, he wasn't sure if Dean did either.

But then he murmured, "That's okay. You can just be Sammy. I -" He paused and Sam tried to keep himself awake long enough to hear him finish. After a while, he muttered something that sounded a lot like 'fuck it' and said, "I… I will still love you, kiddo."

Sam smiled softly and, as if that was what he had been waiting for all this time, finally let himself go into beautiful oblivion.

**…**

**Epilogue**

**November 2005**

Another set of coordinates sent by John, who had disappeared two months ago and had only been communicating with them through texts of numbered directions to their next hunt, led them to a spirit that had been haunting a house in Framingham, Massachusetts for the past ten years, murdering a total of two families in inexplicable, freak accidents that have left the law enforcement stumped.

Mary Stone was murdered in a macabre manner along with her husband and children, and had been the one who couldn't let go and so became violently possessive of the house where many memories of her loved ones resided, forcing everyone who tried make the place their own to the same fate that she and her family had suffered.

After the most recent family found John Reyes, the father, killed horrifically in his bloodied shower while the mother was out for a jog, they went to investigate. Cold spots, strange sounds, smells, accidental sighting of a female ghostly figure (" _we believe you, Mrs. Reyes_ "), all signs there. Finding out her story from an old news article and discovering that the attacks were happening in the same, age-ascending order as the one Mary's family had died in (father, mother, eldest to youngest child), Sam and Dean set off to Edgell Grove Cemetery to burn Mary Stone's body. However, then came a call from Mrs. Reyes, telling them that there was another attempt at her life, making them realize that her spirit was attached to an object.

The hardest thing was finding the locket which held a picture of her children, fallen behind the drawers. They had looked meticulously all over the house for something that might have been forgotten or kept by the prior families, but there was no such thing that could have been significant to Mary, anything that was related to the ones she loved.

Thinking that it must have been something that she kept close to herself, and the room in which the murder had occurred in, they figured that it had to be lost somewhere in the bedroom, somewhere that nobody looked, and after surrounding Mrs. Reyes and her two daughters and one son in a circle of salt, went ripping the place apart. Finding it (not without a few disturbances) and burning it in the trashcan with a lighter, they watched as the ghost of Mary Stone went up in flames, shrieking, and finally at peace.

Now they stood outside the house, bruised and exhausted but feeling accomplished, the first glimpse of the rising sun appearing just now as streaks of orange and red colored the yellowed sky above them. Mrs. Reyes's eyes, although were heavy with the loss she hadn't had the time to mourn, were soft and wet, her grateful smile crinkling the corners. Her children stood beside her, her arms around their shoulders as she thanked them again and again. They didn't know what to say in return, struck speechless at the unusual display of appreciation and acknowledgement for their work, and so they smiled awkwardly and nodded.

"I guess you aren't FBI agents, are you?" Emily, the sixteen-year old daughter asked. "And your real names aren't Hunter and Byers. The FBI wouldn't know so much about monsters, like you guys do."

"No, I guess not," Sam said, giving her a half-smile. "My name's Sam Winchester."

And then he looked at Dean, standing beside him, and for some reason, Sam felt like it hadn't been like that for five years but their whole lives. His smile widened slightly at the thought, and at the words that came out next, "This is my brother, Dean."

 

**FIN**

  


 


End file.
